Help Me Say Goodbye
by Sparks
Summary: Christine goes to her father's grave to find resolution, and finds instead a Ghost. Without Raoul to protect her, she cannot escape him, and the course of their lives is irrevocably altered.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k, 42 chapters.

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

Summary: Christine goes to her father's grave to find resolution, and finds instead a Ghost. Without Raoul to protect her, she cannot escape him, and the course of their lives is irrevocably altered.

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><p>Christine knelt at her father's grave and fought back tears.<p>

Everything was crashing down around her head, and she felt helpless – more than that, she felt weary. The past few months had been a whirlwind of emotion, and she was exhausted by it. Her debut as a singer, Raoul's reappearance in her life…and her Angel. The Opera Ghost. His murder of Buquet, the destruction of the chandelier – she could still recall, even now, six months later, how utterly terrified she had been as the great chandelier came crashing down towards her.

The masquerade, Raoul's insistence that she finally allow him to reveal their engagement. Six months was a long time to keep quiet about such a thing, she knew, but she could not wear his ring on her finger – and would not examine why, except to know it was only partly because of fear.

The Phantom's appearance – and the way he had drawn her to him, as he had done before, half-mesmerising her somehow. She was drawn to him, could not deny that even to herself, but he terrified her nonetheless.

His face; his temper; his sin.

His opera, which was so strange and new and difficult, but she knew she could sing the role, knew he had written it for her. And yet what had he said in his note? 'Should she wish to excel…'

Yes, she could not excel in this role without him, she knew that. But to return to him was unthinkable. He had killed Buquet. His face – dear God, that face that haunted her dreams. She had told Raoul it was so distorted, so deformed that it could hardly be called a face. His eyes, though…in her dreams his eyes were the worst thing, in her dreams he looked at her with such despair, such hopelessness.

It was something that Raoul would never understand – how she still felt drawn to her Angel despite the horror of his face, despite the cruel murder of Buquet and the sabotage of the chandelier. In Raoul's eyes he was a monster, but she could not forget how he looked at her.

As if she was his entire world.

Tears fell down her cheeks, stinging cold in the bitterness of January ice, and her fingers were white as she lifted a hand to wipe the tears away. If she were sensible, she knew, she would go home now, leave the frozen graveyard and go back to her warm bedroom in the opera house. Meg would be wondering where she was – would be waiting for her.

Dear, sweet Meg, who had stuck by her through everything, through the tension of the last six months. She had defended Christine against gossip, had never once remonstrated with her for not realising that a voice who spoke to her from nowhere could not really be an angel. She had never once said that Christine ought to have known better – something Christine knew Raoul had thought occasionally.

She had come here to try to find some resolution, to try to work out what she was feeling and what she should do about it. Here, where her father was buried, she had hoped for some peace. But she had not found that resolution, had found no peace. The past could not offer it to her, and the past was over – she could no longer cling to it.

No, she could not continue to think of the past. She must live in the present and the future, and cling no more to the memory of her father, or the dream of an Angel.

Christine wondered, then, what that meant for her relationship with Raoul, for there was no doubt that she associated him with her past, with the happy memories of childhood. But he was Raoul, so sweet and loving, so gentle with her.

She took a deep breath, released it slowly. She had found resolution, then, of a sort – and she must try to hold firm to it, to let go of the things that held her back. She could no longer be the child comforted with stories of an Angel of Music; she must be the woman who could withstand the Phantom of the Opera.

She rose, brushed her skirt free from dirt – paused, frowned faintly. She thought she could hear…

It was the wind, she told herself, but could not help glancing around furtively, because there was no wind – it was a remarkably still night.

"Christine."

She lifted a hand to her mouth to hold back her fear, turned to see – yes. There he was. Dressed in his opera finery, with that black cape across his shoulders, a hat on his head the only concession to the cold.

The Opera Ghost. Her Angel. He stood barely a few yards away from her, by an imposing grave marker, and for a moment all she could think was that she had never seen him outside the opera house before.

And then fear caught up, the terror that had dominated the past six months since he had killed Buquet and sent a chandelier crashing on her head, and Christine glanced around frantically to find a way to escape him.

"I mean you no harm," he said, but he took a step towards her and Christine pictured Joseph Buquet, dangling at the end of a rope, stumbled back a pace and found she had nowhere to go. "Christine, don't run," he said, his voice soft and seductive, that voice that she had never been able to resist, not from her earliest days as his student. "Don't run from me," he said, his voice a murmur as he stepped closer still. "Do not shun me, Christine."

She could not speak, felt herself softening as he looked at her with those eyes, those pleading eyes that haunted her dreams on so many nights. Pleading with her to stay with him, to accept him.

"I have only ever been a protector for you," he murmured, and Christine shook her head, tried to find words to protest, because the chandelier – the chandelier, which could have killed her. "Your Angel of Music. Have you forgotten?"

No, she had not forgotten – she had not forgotten anything, and she was frozen in place, terror and desire mingling to keep her limbs heavy and leaden.

"Christine," he said, and he was so close to her now, had moved without sound. A Ghost in practice as well as in name, and she felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside her at the thought, bit her lip to keep it down. Tasted blood, harsh and metallic in her mouth, and he lifted a hand, reached out and touched her. He brushed the blood from her lip and she trembled at the touch.

"Christine," he murmured, and she was shaking, tried to pull away from him but the iron gates at her back prevented any escape even if she had been able to master her body.

"Do not fear me," he said, begging her, and Christine felt tears in her eyes again. "I would never harm you."

He meant it, she could see. There was nothing but sincerity in his expression – what she could see of it, for the mask concealed so much. That mask that seemed so bright in the moonlight, the white so pure, and that purity so incongruous with what she knew of him.

His eyes were wide, his hand outstretched towards her still, but he did not touch her now. It was as if he was waiting for her, waiting for some response – and she did not know what he wanted from her.

Everyone wanted something from her, she thought wildly. Her Angel, and Raoul, and the managers. Everyone wanted something from her and she would go mad trying to give them what they wanted.

Mad. Carlotta had called her that, the other week in the managers' office. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she had gone mad, and this was all an illusion, some fantasy dreamed up by her own mind to torture her.

"Christine," he said again, and she flinched, glanced down at his hand once more, patiently held out for her still. Patient, as he had always been patient with her. Strict, yes, but still…patient.

She felt dizzy, felt trapped, and she shivered, wrapped her cloak about herself, looked at him in agony. She could not answer him, could not speak. She had no words.

She was his mask, and he was her words. It was not a fair trade, she felt – and yet was that not why she had come here? To try to find her own voice, to say goodbye to all that had confined her before?

But she could not do so now, not with him standing there looking at her with tenderness. Such hope. As if she could make him either the happiest man on this earth, or the saddest.

Fear was ebbing away now, had disappeared almost without her realising it. Fear belonged in the opera house, fear belonged to some other Christine who was not standing here by her father's grave looking at…

Looking at her Angel. Because this was not the terrifying Opera Ghost, this was the voice she had grown to love, this was a man asking for acceptance.

He seemed to sense the change in her, lowered his hand slowly to his side. "Christine," he said, "will you come with me?"

His words recalled her to herself, and Christine shook her head, pressed against the cold gate behind her.

"No," she whispered. "No, I can't – please, I can't!"

She tried to run then, to flee from him as she knew she must, but he was faster and blocked the way. The hope was replaced by bitterness then, by anger, and she was scared once more, covered her mouth to keep back a scream.

"Don't run from me," he said, a snarl now, and he crowded close to her. Terrified, she turned, twisted – stumbled on the uneven ground and fell with a cry.

Something hit her head, and for a few short moments Christine was aware of pain. Then she was aware of nothing

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><p>Fic is completed and beta-read. A new chapter will be posted every day :)<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Something was stinging at her forehead – something sharp and unpleasant, and Christine lifted a hand to bat it away, felt something grip her arm tightly to keep her still.<p>

She opened her eyes, inhaled sharply, found eyes and a mask close to her, so close. He was gripping her arm, holding her down, and with his other hand was dabbing something onto her forehead.

"Lie still," he said curtly. "You've hurt your head, I'm tending to it."

Christine could do nothing but obey, controlled her trembling with effort and lay still. She tried to look at something, at anything other than him, but he was so close to her, leaned over her as he lifted a damp cloth to her forehead. He was focused on his work, but the mask was so close to her, and all she could think about was what lay underneath.

He moved at last, turned away to do something, and Christine was able to look around. She was lying on a bed – a beautiful bed, covered with luxurious bedding, soft and rich under her fingers. She was still in her dress, but her cloak and scarf had been removed. Her shoes also, she realised as she wriggled her toes.

She could see little of the room she was in, both because of his order to lie still and because the lamp he was using did not light the room well. But the walls were rock, she could see that much, and there was other furniture in the room, a wardrobe of some sort and she thought there was a dressing table as well.

He returned, leaned over her once more. "This will sting," he said, his words still curt and abrupt. Christine nodded, just slightly – enough to make her very aware of how her head ached – and he paused, his expression softening a little. "Be still," he said. "It isn't a bad cut, but you may have a concussion." He lifted something to her head, and Christine hissed at the sting of it. "Is your head aching?" he asked her, and she moistened her lips, murmured agreement. "I will get you something for that."

"Where – where am I?" Christine asked then, couldn't stop a flinch as he touched her forehead with cold hands.

"My home," he said, didn't meet her eyes as he pushed her hair aside, scrutinised the cut. "It's clean now," he said finally. "It's an awkward position to bandage, so you must be careful to keep it dry." He pulled away from her, rose and gathered together the things he had used to tend to her. Christine lay still, felt fear rising once again. She was alone in his home – and the only ways out were his. She could not navigate the dark passages, even if she could cross the lake.

Was she to be his prisoner, then? He had said in the graveyard that he would not hurt her, and yet…

Her head ached, a sharpness behind her eyes, and she longed for sleep. For respite from the confusion of this man and his intentions. But when she closed her eyes his hand came to touch her again, cold fingers against her cheek, and she gasped, stared up at him.

"You must not sleep," he said, and there was regret in his voice despite the distance he so obviously sought. "Not quite yet, Christine." She shook her head, then lifted a hand to her forehead as the motion worsened her headache. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked her then.

She thought; did she remember? Yes, the graveyard – he had been there at the graveyard, he had asked her to go with him. She couldn't remember why she hadn't agreed, couldn't remember why she had refused him. Why should she refuse her Angel? Everything was jumbled together in her head, such a confusion of duty and desire and fear.

"I – I fell?" she said at last, hesitant. "I hit my head?"

"Yes, Christine," he said patiently. "You hit your head and I brought you here." He left her for a moment, left the lamplight but not the room, returned and sat on the edge of the bed. He did not reach for her, did not try to touch her, and Christine wondered why that bothered her. His cool hands might bring relief for her head – no, she told herself, no, she did not desire his touch. He was the Ghost, he was a murderer, nothing like her kind, sweet Raoul.

"Raoul," she murmured, and his lip curled but she paid it no attention, tried to sit up. "I must go to Raoul, he will be so worried."

"No, Christine, lie still," he said, and his hands were strong, implacable as he eased her back against the pillows, piled high on the bed at her back. "You must rest. You were unconscious for nearly an hour. You will feel worse if you move."

That much she knew to be true from that brief, futile attempt to sit up. Nausea had risen within her, and she breathed through it, stared up at the dark ceiling and felt the pounding ache in her head. Tried to grasp the worry of a moment ago, but it had fled her mind, had gone entirely.

His hand had remained on her shoulder, fingers stroking gently, and she looked up at him, tried to remember the fear that she was sure she should feel for him.

"Angel," she murmured. "Angel, what is this place?"

Concern flashed across his face, his eyes were narrowed as he looked down at her, but his words were soft and pleasant when he spoke.

"My home, Christine," he said. "This is your bedroom. It has been waiting for you."

"Mine," said Christine, startled, and she tried to sit up again but his hands were iron on her shoulders. "I want to see," she said, frowned in irritation. "Please let me."

"Later," he said, a promise. "You will see it all later. But you must rest now, Christine. Stay in bed like a good girl."

"I'm not a child," she murmured, chafing at his words. Everyone treated her as a child – her Angel, and Madame Giry, and Raoul. She was not a child, she was nearly eighteen, she was a star of the opera house now. She would not be treated like a child, not even by her Angel.

"You are a very foolish child," he said, and she looked up at him with wide eyes, heard the fondness in his voice. "And I shall treat you as one as long as you continue to be so foolish. I have said several times that you must stay still in bed and rest."

"…Yes," she said at last, relaxed into the pillows. "Yes, you have. I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry for," he soothed, and his hand came to her face then, cold fingers down her cheek. She shivered, and he retreated with a sigh. "If you promise to stay still, I will fetch something for your headache," he said then. "Do you promise, Christine? Promise your Angel."

"I promise," she said, and he looked at her for a long moment, judging her promise. At last he nodded, rose from the bed and went away. The room felt cold and empty without him, his presence so strong, and Christine was almost tempted to sit up, to disobey him.

But fear returned then, fear of his anger and his disappointment, and so she remained as she was. If she was to stay in bed, she thought to herself, she must undress. Her dress would become uncomfortable, and would wrinkle horribly, if she lay in it for long. But she had no other clothes here, no nightgown to wear, and she could not simply strip to her undergarments.

No, that would not be proper – Christine knew that. And that nebulous worry returned as she remembered Raoul, remembered that he would be concerned for her absence. Meg too, she knew, would be missing her. How long had she been here? He'd told her, she thought, but she could not remember now.

Concussion, he had said. Was that why she felt so confused, so muddled? She lifted a hand to her head, felt for the cut – small, no longer bleeding, but she had seen head wounds before. They bled profusely, and she wondered for a moment if her Angel had been scared when he saw it.

She wondered why she should care. Her Angel. The Phantom. Why should she care if he was scared? Why should she care? After all, he had – he had…

He had done something, something to scare her terribly, but she could not remember it. It hovered in her mind just beyond her reach, and she knew if she could remember, she would be scared. Would be terrified. Would not be content to lie here and wait for him to return. But she could not remember, and she was not scared.

She waited; he returned.

"Good," he said, his approval obvious. It had been six months since she had heard his praise, since she had won his approval, and she smiled to receive it now. He carried a glass in his hand, held it out to her as he came to the bed. "Here, drink this."

"What is it?" she asked, tried to sit up a little to drink it. He slid an arm underneath her shoulders to help, and she had to close her eyes, breathed through her nose to keep from being sick. Then she took the glass, tasted the bitterness of laudanum – barely a mouthful, and she swallowed it quickly, returned the glass to him.

"It will make you sleepy," he said, eased her back down onto the pillows and then put the glass somewhere out of sight. "But sleep will do you good, the concussion may be more severe than I thought."

"I'm fine," she said, relaxed into the soft bed.

"You are not fine," he contradicted her, and he smiled then – an expression she had never seen before, and she looked at him with wonder. She had seen him angry, seen him begging, but she had never seen him smile. It was…nice, she decided. It changed his face somehow, made the mask less cold, although half the expression was hidden.

She liked to see him smile, wished she could see it more often.

But that was impossible – somehow, that was impossible. She could not stay here, could not stay with him. There were reasons why she couldn't stay here…but she couldn't remember them right now.

Something about the chandelier, she thought, and fear – an all-pervading fear that was with her from the moment she woke until the moment she fell asleep, and past that even into her dreams. She was afraid of him. She must be afraid of him.

And yet how could she be afraid of this man who was taking such care of her, who tended her wound and eased her pain? How could that be possible?

"I feel so confused," she whispered, felt miserable with it. "Everything's so confused in my head." She lifted a hand, tried to touch the wound once more but he caught her wrist, stopped her.

"No, Christine," he said, gentle but firm. "Do not touch it, or you will begin bleeding again. You are confused because of the concussion." He looked down at her, sighed heavily. "You must rest," he said, more to himself than to her. "I shall be in the next room – you have but to call me, Christine, and I shall come."

"No, don't leave me," said Christine, reached frantically for him. She could not be alone, not here in this dark underground room. "Please, Angel – please don't leave me!"

"Oh, Christine," he said, with another sigh. "You do not know what you are saying. When your head is better, you will regret all this so deeply." She shook her head, closed her eyes briefly at the ache in her head. The laudanum was working but slowly, and shaking her head still made the pain worse. "You will, Christine. You will be angry with me, and perhaps you should be."

"I could never be angry with you, Angel," said Christine. He had settled again on the edge of the bed and she felt easier with him there, as if he could push back the shadows in her mind and restore the memories that were beyond her reach. She felt…safe with him.

Could that be possible? She felt so confused, for surely she felt safe with Raoul, surely Raoul kept her safe from this man who masqueraded as a Ghost.

She could not remember why she would need to be protected from her Angel, although she looked up at him, looked at his mask and thought perhaps that was it. His mask, hiding his face. That hideous face. That was why she was scared of him, surely?

"Sleep now, Christine," he said gently. "I will be here."

She nodded slowly, closed her eyes and fell deeply asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine woke slowly the second time, woke in dark and silence and an uncomfortable itchiness from sleeping in her clothes.<p>

She stared up into the darkness. There had been a lamp here last night, she remembered – although she couldn't quite remember everything about the last time she had been awake, she remembered the lamplight. Now the room was in absolute darkness, and when she sat up she could not even see her hand in front of her face.

It panicked her a little, this dark, and she tried to keep breathing normally, tried to control the panic. She could feel the bed beneath her, a point of reference, but she did not dare try to get up, to leave the solid bed and try to find a door.

There were no windows in her Angel's underground home, and she realised that it might be broad daylight above. She might be missing rehearsals, had no idea what time it was.

Her Angel.

Christine raised a hand to her head, felt the small cut there but was careful not to break the scab that was forming. Yes, she remembered that. Remembered being at the graveyard, and her Angel finding her there. She could remember falling, and then afterwards the way he had cared for her wound so gently.

But he was the Ghost, and he had killed Buquet – had dropped a chandelier on her head. Fear threatened to overwhelm her, stopped her breathing for long moments, until she was gasping in ragged pants. She was with the Ghost, not her Angel – never her Angel again, after what he had done.

Would he keep her here? Was she his prisoner? Certainly leaving her in the dark was an effective way to ensure she could not leave.

And yet…and yet he had taken care of her wound, had brought her here, and she still wore her clothing so there could have been nothing truly improper about his actions. He had taken care of her so tenderly, she remembered that…

Christine shuddered, felt no less confused now than she had before. Then her eyes found something – a chink of light, small and faint. There was a light somewhere, and it shone underneath a door, she realised. That small strip of light was enough to make her abandon the bed and make her tentative way across the room.

She found a handle, turned it – the door was not unlocked, and the passage beyond was dimly-lit, but a candle on the wall gave just enough light for Christine to see by. There were several doors leading off the passage, and she hesitated. She had not seen this place before, that night when her Angel had brought her here. Then she had only been in one room, had seen nothing else. She did not know which door to try.

None of them, she knew, would lead to freedom. That lay entirely in the Ghost's hands.

The floor was cold beneath her feet, bare rock achingly cold even through her stockings, and she went to the first door, paused for a moment and then opened it.

The room was dark; nothing living was here, so she closed the door and tried the next. The candle was closer to this door, and she could see what looked like a kitchen, but again it was empty.

The third door led into a brightly-lit room, candles all around and an oil lamp on a desk. This was the music room that she had seen before, and her Angel was here, looked up when she entered.

She stood still in the doorway, felt his gaze on her, became very aware of the wrinkles in her dress, the tangles in her hair. Her feet in stockings.

"Good morning," he said at last, and Christine couldn't return the greeting, felt that cold fear creeping across her once again. "How do you feel?" he asked, put down his pen and rose from the organ. "Does your head still hurt?"

"No," said Christine quietly – and then, because she could not be rude even to this man, added, "thank you." They stared at each other, and Christine struggled against her fear, struggled to keep from trembling. She couldn't think what to say, couldn't find any words to speak. He seemed to have a similar problem, stood silent and watchful, and she felt exposed under his gaze.

She tried to tear her eyes away, to look around the room or even to take him in properly, but found she could not look away from him. Those eyes, those haunting eyes that showed his emotions far more plainly than his face could, half-hidden as it was by his mask.

And yet she could not read his emotions now, could not tell what he was thinking. She fidgeted her hands together, clasped them in front of her, felt silly and childish before the calmly self-possessed Ghost.

"I – I must be getting back," she stammered at last. "Meg will have missed me – and rehearsals, I mustn't be late."

He tilted his head a little, regarded her almost curiously. "Mustn't you?" he said, casual, as if he was barely interested. Christine bit her lip, swallowed hard. He would not let her go that easily, she knew. But she had to try.

"Please," she said, and her voice came out choked and strange. Tears were not far, but she battled them. "Please, I must go."

"Last night, you asked me not to leave," he said, and his eyes were fierce, his mouth a harsh scowl. "I told you that you would regret it." Had she asked him that? She could not remember. She could recall how he had tended to her, could almost still feel his touch on her cheek, but she could not remember asking him to stay with her.

"You cannot keep me here," she said, braver than she felt, and he shook his head, looked away from her. His fingers moved restlessly, and the ring on his finger flashed in the candlelight. "Please, you – you can't keep me here."

"You're free to go whenever you wish," he said, startling her. He huffed a laugh then, a dark chuckle that sent shivers down her spine. "Yes, of course. You may go whenever you wish – you are not a prisoner here, Christine."

She stared at him, could not believe it, and he kept chuckling.

"Please, take your leave," he said. "The boat awaits you. I would not care to wander the passages alone in the dark, who knows how long it would take you to find a way up? But you may go whenever you choose."

"Alone," she repeated, realisation dawning slowly, sickeningly. "I can't find my way alone."

"You would manage eventually," he said, stepped closer, and Christine fought the urge to run, to flee back to her room. But that would be no escape; she steeled herself, remained where she was in the doorway. "The tunnels down here do not go on forever, eventually you would find a way up – unless you slipped and injured yourself in the darkness."

"But you won't take me."

"No," he said softly. "No, I will not."

"Then I'm a prisoner," she cried. "Even if you say I may go, you know I can't!" She lifted a hand to her mouth, felt hot tears running down her cheeks. "Why?" she demanded wildly then. "Why won't you let me go?"

"Why did you take my mask?" he thundered, made her shake in the face of his anger. "Why did you betray me with that – that boy?" He came across the room towards her, almost stalking her, and Christine was so afraid she couldn't move, couldn't run. "I gave you everything, and how have you repaid me?"

He reached for her and she cringed away, cried out when he grasped her by the shoulders and roughly drew her further into the room.

"Yes, cry," he spat. "Cry in terror, because that's all you can do, isn't it, Christine? Terror is all you could possibly feel for the monster in the mask!"

"Why won't you leave me alone?" she moaned, stumbled when he released her. "Please, why won't you –"

"Leave you alone?" he said, and he moaned too, turned away from her and lifted his hands to his head as if he was in pain. "Do you not think I have asked myself that question again and again? Why can I not leave you alone?"

Silence then, broken only by his harsh, panting breaths. Christine hugged herself, closed her eyes, wished herself away from here. Wished herself far away from the confusion and the fear.

Her head was aching again, she realised. Concussion, he had said, and her head ached now.

At last she dared to look at him, found him half-bent with his hands still at his head, covering his eyes. He looked…he looked as though she had ruined him, somehow. As though she had broken him.

Christine found she could not bear the idea that she had hurt him, and marvelled at it. After all he had done, she could not bear the idea of causing him pain.

She stepped towards him, her footsteps silent in just her stockings, reached out a hand and tentatively touched his shoulder. His reaction was immediate, almost violent; he spun around, stared down at her, his eyes impossibly wide. She flinched away, her bravery failing her once more.

"I would be your Angel again," he said then, so wistful, looked down at her with such a pitiful look. "Could you not try to see your Angel in me again, Christine? Forget what lies under this mask…and let me be your Angel once more?"

She shook her head, lowered her gaze. "I'm not a child any longer," she whispered. "I – I don't believe in angels anymore."

He sighed, sorrowful. "But you believe in ghosts," he said. "Oh yes, you believe in those. But I do not want to be the Opera Ghost for you, Christine." She didn't understand what he meant, but couldn't ask him to be clearer. She stood miserably, kept her eyes down on the floor. "Christine. Look at me."

She could not disobey him, had obeyed the voice for so long now that she could not think of disobedience. Christine lifted her head, looked at him, afraid of what she might see. Afraid he might have removed his mask, although she knew such a thing was hardly likely.

And of course he had not removed it. He was simply looking at her, with those eyes…those eyes…

"All I want is for you to stay with me," he told her. "Is that so much to ask? Why may not I have what you so freely give the Vicomte?"

The Vicomte – Raoul. Christine lifted her hands as if to ward him off, shook her head.

"Because I love him," she said, "and I do not love you! You cannot keep me here – he will know something has happened, he will come to find me!" He snarled, angry again, and she stumbled back, almost fell into a chair.

"He may try," he said. "But nobody can find you now, Christine – no, you are Erik's now, and Erik's you will remain!" Erik – his name, she realised. His _name_. She had never known his name before, wondered if anybody living knew his name.

Wondered what he would do to her now she knew.

"You could come to love me, Christine," he said, the anger gone, his moods so mercurial. He fell to his knees before her, crawled closer, grasped at her skirts. She could not escape him, the touch of his hand on her knee through cloth, and she felt fresh tears sting at her eyes. "You could learn to love me, if you tried," he went on, coaxing her. "If you only tried, you would learn how to. Why won't you try, Christine?"

She shook her head, said nothing. There was nothing she could possibly say.

"This face," he said, lifted a hand to his mask. "That is why, is it not? But Christine, I need never take the mask off – I would always wear it if only you could try to love me!"

"No," she whispered at last. "Not…not just your face. You – you killed a man. And you almost killed me."


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>He stared up at her, almost panting, his bloated lips parted. Christine could not shrink away from him, could not push his hand from her knee. He shook his head slightly, as if in denial of her words, but Christine would not let him deny it.<p>

"I was on stage when the chandelier crashed," she reminded him. "It nearly fell right on top of me. I was cut by the glass." She stretched out an arm, showed him the scar that had formed from the long laceration on her forearm. "How could I love someone who placed me in such danger?" she asked him, gentler than she felt. "How could I possibly?"

"You love the Vicomte," he muttered, surly, "and he will put you in danger. Oh yes, Christine, I know all about his plans for me!" But he lifted his hand from her knee to trace the long, thin scar. His fingers were cold, but Christine did not flinch, did not pull away from him. She let him look, let him touch her – could not do otherwise when he was so anguished. "Oh, Christine. Christine, I did not…I could never…"

She was silent, and at last he released her arm, rested his hand on her knee again.

"You're right," he said then, barely a whisper. "I did hurt you. I did not…think." He was shaking – he was crying, she realised, and was horrified by it. She had meant to hurt him with her words, but she had never imagined he might cry.

She stretched out her hand, brushed her fingers across his cheek to wipe away the tears. He gasped, lifted his head to look at her, and Christine stared back. She didn't know why his tears distressed her, but they did, and she stroked her fingers across his cheek again, wiped more tears away.

"Christine," he murmured. "Oh, Christine. I did not mean to hurt you. Can you believe that much of me, at least?" She nodded slowly, and he clasped her hand in his, brought it to his mouth and kissed her palm. She thought of Raoul, of what he would think of the way she allowed this man's touch – Erik's touch – but she found she could not pull away from him. She was not disgusted by the way he touched her.

She should be; those bloated lips touching her skin, kissing her hand – she should be disgusted. But she was not. She must think about that, about what it meant, but not now. Later, perhaps, if there was a later without Erik's presence.

Erik – his name. For her Angel had a name just like any other man. He was a man, not an Angel, and not a Ghost. She must try to think of him as a man, now she had a name for him.

He took a deep breath then, released her hand and knelt back. "Too much," he muttered. "Too much." He rose abruptly, turned away from her, lifted a hand to his face – to dry his eyes, perhaps. Christine sat still in the chair, watched him warily. His moods were so changeable that she barely knew what to expect from one moment to the next, and it was exhausting trying to keep up with him.

And her head still ached – all the more, she thought, for his confusing behaviour.

He turned back to her, frowning a little. "Does your head pain you, Christine?" he asked, gentle once more.

"Yes," she murmured. "Yes, it…aches."

"Do you feel dizzy? Nauseated?"

"No – a little dizzy, perhaps," she admitted, when he made an impatient gesture.

"You should return to bed," he said then, raked his gaze over her, making her feel once again so utterly exposed. "I have more laudanum, but you shouldn't take more so soon. And it would send you to sleep again."

"I don't want to sleep," Christine murmured. She had no idea what time it was – it must be morning, he had greeted her as if it was, but whether early or late she did not know. But regardless, she did not want to sleep again. Did not want the heavy sedation of laudanum.

"You must rest, though," said Erik, and he stepped towards her again, silent footsteps that showed her how easy it must be for him to move unseen around the opera house. "You must go back to bed, Christine."

She couldn't look at him, clasped her hands together tightly in her lap. "I…there's no light," she whispered. The bedroom was dark, and she did not want to go back there without a light. The music room was his, was imbued with his presence and she could not think clearly here, but there it was at least light. Candles all around, and the fire crackling in the fireplace. It was…friendly.

No, that could not be right – there was nothing friendly about this home he had carved out for himself underneath the opera house. Nothing friendly, nothing safe. Erik was not safe, and he was not her friend. Not any longer.

And she did not miss his friendship. She could not. She must not.

"Light is easily created," said Erik, and he caught up a candlestick, held his other hand out for her. "Come. You will feel better if you rest."

Christine could not disobey, could not organise her thoughts well enough to object, but she did not take his hand. She rose, followed him from the bright music room. The passage was cold, the candle placed on the wall was dying, but Erik moved with ease. This was his home; he knew it well enough to be without light entirely, she realised.

"There," he said, flinging wide the door to the bedroom he had called hers. "You have light." He went into the room, lit more candles from the one in his hand, and soon there was enough light to see by. Christine glanced around almost furtively, saw the wardrobe and dressing table she half-remembered from last night, saw the bed with the sheets crumpled from where she had slept.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Do you like it?" he asked her, an eager note in his voice. The shadows in the room made him look strange; the mask was fierce and savage as the candles flickered, the shadows moving across him as he circled around her, forcing her further into the room. "I made this room for you, Christine. It is all for you."

Christine wasn't sure what to say, too afraid of his changing moods to tell him that she found it close and dark. A room without windows.

But his eagerness made her glance about again, made her try to look at it with different eyes. It was…pretty, she decided. The furniture was lovely, the linen on the bed was rich and tasteful. Everything was arranged as she would have done it – as if by someone who had watched her for years and knew her tastes intimately.

It had been created with care – and more than that, it had been created with hope.

"Yes," she said at last. "I do like it." He sighed a little, pleased with her answer, and Christine twisted her hands together. "But I – I –"

He waited patiently, so patient, and her heart ached with how she would hurt him with her words. But she must say them; she could not hold back. He must not think she would stay here willingly, because she could not. She must go, must return to the world above – to Raoul, who loved her, who would never ask her to live in a house without windows, without sunlight.

But surely Erik loved her too; surely that was why he was so angry with her. He had called it a betrayal, her engagement to Raoul. He claimed she had betrayed him with Raoul. He would not be so heartbroken if he did not love her, she thought. But his love was not…it was not…

Her head ached, and she could no longer think of these men who loved her in such different ways.

Erik seemed to sense it, to sense how overwhelmed she was. He shook his head, flicked his fingers towards the bed.

"Lie down and rest," he said, his tone kind but firm, just as her teacher had always sounded. "You will feel better for it. Lie down and close your eyes, Christine."

She wanted to protest that she could not rest in her clothes, but the ache behind her eyes was too persistent and she felt dizzy now. The floor seemed to spin beneath her feet as she tried to step to the bed, and she would have fallen but for Erik. His hand at her elbow, the other at her shoulder, guiding her across the floor to the bed and helping her down.

"I can't stay here," she whispered, kept her eyes closed against his anger. "Erik, you cannot keep me here."

But his response was not anger; he inhaled sharply, clutched at her hand.

"Say my name again," he said urgently. "Say it again, Christine."

She opened her eyes, looked up at him, wondered how long it had been since anyone had called him by name. The thought made her sad, made her heart ache inconsolably for this man who had hidden himself away from the world. Even thinking of the sins he had committed could not ease the ache she felt. How had the world treated him, that the only possible response had been to hide underneath an opera house and pretend to be a ghost?

"Erik," she said, and he sighed, knelt beside the bed and held her hand tightly in his. "Erik, please. Please listen to me. You know I cannot stay here. I have rehearsals – for your opera."

"You can practice here," he returned. "Who better to rehearse you than I? You could hardly attend rehearsals until you are well, anyway."

Argument was futile, and she hesitated to mention Raoul again as a reason for leaving. She knew how he felt about Raoul – oh yes, she knew that. If she reminded him that she was engaged and that her fiancé would miss her, she knew Erik would fly into a rage again.

Tiredness and pain made her a coward, and she held her tongue, sighed and tried to relax. The bed was soft, although her skirts and corsets weren't ideal for resting in. Still, she had nothing else, would not dare complain of it.

"Close your eyes," he murmured. "Just rest, Christine." He sang to her then, soft and beautiful, and she sighed again, relaxed at last. His voice was so beautiful, so familiar, and she closed her eyes to hear it better.

His voice followed her into her dreams – his voice and his eyes, those beautiful eyes. In her dreams she could love his voice and his eyes without fear, without regret. In her dreams there was nothing of the conflict that raged during her waking hours; there was simply love, and kindness, and the fear was gone.

There was simply the voice.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine did not sleep long or deeply; she woke when her legs became tangled in her skirts and her corset was hindering breathing. She sat up and looked around at once for her Angel – for Erik, she reminded herself firmly. His name was Erik, and he was a man.<p>

But Erik was not in her bedroom.

The candles had not burnt low, so she knew she had not been asleep long. Perhaps half an hour, although time seemed so meaningless without the sky, without the sun. She wished for a clock, wondered if Erik had one somewhere. He must, for he must go to performances sometimes – must leave the opera house, even. She wondered how he purchased food and other necessities, or whether he stole them.

She could not put theft beyond his capabilities, not when he extorted money from the managers each month. Not when he had murdered.

She longed to change from her dress, to loosen her corset. She had been wearing these clothes for over a day, she realised, since yesterday morning. But she had nothing else here; her clothes were all above, in the little room she shared with Meg in the ballet dormitories – and Erik would not let her leave.

Then Christine caught sight of the wardrobe, and she stared at it for a moment, bit her lip in thought. Erik had created this room for her; did it follow, therefore, that he had clothing for her here?

She slipped off the bed, went to the wardrobe and opened the door. Yes, there was clothing here – several dresses, some plain and some beautifully elegant, the kind of thing she had seen ladies wear to see the opera. She reached out and touched the skirt of one of them, felt silk beneath her fingers. Elegant and refined, nothing like she had ever worn except on stage. Raoul had tried to persuade her to order new dresses, had said as his fiancée she should be dressed well, but she had resisted.

Just as she still resisted wearing his ring.

She sighed, pushed that thought away. She loved Raoul, she did...but she could not wear his ring, not yet. Marrying him felt just as distant and unreal as a dream. Wearing his ring, accepting gifts of clothing – that was real. That was too real. She could not do it.

There were two drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe, and she opened one to reveal undergarments and nightclothes in fine cotton, and she blushed to think of Erik purchasing these for her. Still, when she held a chemise and pantalettes up to herself, she could see they would fit, and her longing for clean clothes made her put away any embarrassment. The other drawer held several pairs of soft slippers, beautifully made, and they fitted her feet neatly.

How had he done this? Had he been in her bedroom, taken measurements from her clothing? She could not think of any other way for him to have clothing that fitted her so perfectly. It should upset her, she knew, the idea of him looking through her things. And yet somehow she could not be angry.

Christine made sure the door was shut, and even then she tried to hide herself behind the wardrobe door. She could not imagine what she would do if Erik were to come in, hoped he would knock before entering. He tried to act like a gentleman, wore the clothing of one, so perhaps he would knock. Perhaps he thought her asleep still.

It was a relief to discard her dress, to take off her corset long enough to change from her own underclothes into the ones Erik had placed in the drawer for her. She would have ideally liked to wash, but there was no washstand in the room, so she simply pulled on the clean undergarments and did up the hooks of her corset once more. She brushed her hand over the dresses in the wardrobe before choosing one, a dark green dress in the style she normally wore. Petticoat and skirts, then the bodice, fastened with a row of small buttons at the front. A pair of slippers from the drawer, soft and warm on her feet.

The dressing table gave her a brush and comb, and she set to work detangling her hair, worked patiently at the knots until the curls were smooth once more. There were ribbons on the table too, different colours jumbled together in a little heap, and she tied her hair away from her face.

There was no mirror in the room; she supposed there was no mirror at all in his home. A man who hid his face from the world would have no wish to regard himself. But she thought she looked presentable enough, certainly better than she had looked earlier – and she felt better too, clothed neatly and tidily. Felt more able to face him.

She blew out all but one of the candles, a little one set into a plain candlestick, and she carried that with her as she went to the door. The passage was dark once more, dark but for the light that spilled out from an open doorway further down. Not the music room, she saw, but the room she had thought was a kitchen.

Christine took a deep breath, stepped down the passage way, paused in the open doorway.

Yes, it was a kitchen. There was a stove at one side, exuding heat; a table in the middle, with two chairs set around it. Shelves on one wall, a counter, and lamps set into the walls at intervals.

He was there, his back to her as he laid the table, but she must have made some noise – or perhaps he had heard her coming from her room – because after a moment he spoke.

"Breakfast is ready," he said. "Is your head better?"

"Yes, much," she murmured, took a step into the room. He turned to look at her, gazed at her with wide eyes and then reached out as if to touch her. But he did not; his hand fell, the distance between them too great.

"You look lovely," he said at last. "Did you find everything you require?" Christine nodded, silent. "I have always thought you looked well in green," he murmured then, more to himself than to her. He was used to speaking to himself, perhaps – too used to solitude to curb the habit now she was here.

"What – what time is it?" she asked then, discomfited by the way he looked at her. Raoul had never looked at her like that, had never gazed at her with such obvious longing.

"Not late," he said, his lip curling a little as if he sensed her thoughts had strayed back to Raoul. "A little past eight. Please, sit."

He pulled a chair out for her, and Christine slowly stepped towards it, slowly sat down. There was only one place laid at the table – he would not eat, she realised. He had prepared a meal for her alone.

He brought it to her, a simple meal. Bread and cheese, a cup of milky coffee, no different to her normal breakfast, taken with Meg and the other girls up in the communal kitchen that served the ballet dormitories – or, sometimes, with Raoul in a café near the opera house.

No different, and yet it was different, because she was here in Erik's home, and he was trying not to watch her – trying not to show how much he wanted to watch her, she could see. He wanted to keep his gaze fixed on her, had to force himself to look away. He had a cup of coffee too, sipped at it occasionally when he remembered it, but he could not keep his eyes away from her for long.

It made the meal an almost uncomfortable experience, and Christine barely tasted the bread, drank the coffee from reflex more than desire for it. She was hungry, ate everything, but enjoyed none of it.

He took the plate and cup from her, put them in the sink. She wondered, briefly, how he got water – did it come from the lake? – but he returned to her then, stared down at her, and she flushed miserably at the intensity of it.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her, gentle – confusingly gentle. "Not nauseous – are you still dizzy?" She shook her head, murmured a negative. "No singing today," he decreed. "You must not tire yourself out after that blow."

"Tire myself out," she murmured, and she lifted her hands, covered her face. "What do you mean for me to do, then?" she asked, dully. She was trapped here; she could not see her friends, or rehearse with the cast, or even see the sky. She could not do the myriad things she took for granted in her daily life.

Trapped; and he had no intention of releasing her.

But his opera, she remembered – he must let her go for that. He had demanded they perform it, everything above was frantically preparing for it. Sets, costumes, rehearsals – Meg had an individual part, she'd been so pleased even though it was the Ghost's opera.

"Give me two days."

"I'm sorry?" She dropped her hands into her lap, looked up at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Erik took his seat again, across the table from her. Laced his fingers together, turned his head a little away from her so the mask was in shadow and she had to focus on the bare side of his face.

"Give me two days," he repeated. "You do not know me, Christine." She licked her lips, frowned a little. She knew him – he had been her Angel, he was the Ghost. "No, you do not. I…deceived you. I admit that much. But I want you to know me." He leaned forwards, and Christine felt her hands shaking, clasped them together in her lap. "Two days," he murmured, so soft and so convincing. "To show you there is no need to fear me."

Fear him? Yes, she feared him – clutched at the thought, at the image of Buquet and at the terror of watching the chandelier falling towards her. She must remember how she had felt, must remember that she was afraid of him.

"Just two days, Christine," he went on. "Is it so much to ask?"

"I – I don't know," she whispered. "What…what will happen at the end?"

He sighed, leaned back again, looked straight at her and she could not escape his gaze. "Then you must make a choice," he said sadly, almost bitterly. "Then you must choose either to stay with me…or to go."

"There is no choice!" she exclaimed, lifted a hand to her throat, to the chain that held Raoul's ring. The second one he had given her, after Erik had stolen the first at the masquerade ball. "I cannot stay here – I must go back! Raoul will be – he loves me, why can you not accept that?"

"Two days, Christine," he said, cold and implacable now. He stood up, glowered down at her. "Two days, and you will bear my company. You will let me talk to you as if I were any other man." He came around the table to stand before her, hands clasped behind his back. He could almost be any gentleman at the opera – except for his mask. That mask, and what it concealed.

"I do not ask for much," he said. "Not much, in return for all I have done for you."

Christine closed her eyes briefly. Not much indeed, when he had inspired her voice, had created in her the singer she had always dreamed of being. And yet there was Raoul, who would be missing her, and Meg, and Madame Giry. She would be absent from rehearsals, had no idea what they would think.

No, that was not true – she knew what Raoul would think. She knew exactly what he would think. He would know the Ghost had her, and would come in search of her.

"What if I say no?" she asked at last. "What then?"

"Then I will keep you here anyway."

She gasped, shook her head, refused to cry but felt so hopeless, so trapped. Trapped as she had felt for six long months. "Oh, you're hateful!" she cried. "Why try to disguise it? There is no choice, I am your prisoner no matter what I say!" He said nothing, and she looked up at him helplessly. "Yes, then," she said. "Yes, two days. Oh God…" She bit back a sob, lowered her head.

His hand brushed away a tear, and she flinched away from him.

"Two days," he said softly. "Thank you, Christine. But you must play your part well, hm? You must try to see me as I am, and not as your fear has dictated."

"My fear is more real than your false kindness," she choked out. "I was a fool to ever think you were my friend."


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Erik extinguished the lights in the kitchen and ushered her back into the music room. Christine sat by the fire, kept her eyes on her hands twisting together in her lap as he went around the room and relit the candles.<p>

Two days stretched out ahead of her, and today she would not even be able to sing. No lesson would make the time quicken, no rehearsal would make her forget what was happening and where she was.

How she was trapped here, deep below the surface.

He came to stand beside her, and Christine stilled her hands, glanced up at him furtively. He was quiet, reflective as he gazed at her.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked eventually, and Christine nodded. "Good. And your head is not aching?"

"No," she murmured, lifted a hand to the cut on her head but he grasped her wrist, prevented it.

"No," he said. "If you touch it, it may bleed again. And it increases the risk of infection and scarring." He released her hand; she dropped it back into her lap. "What would you like to do, Christine? I am yours to command."

Christine sighed, held back her initial response. All she wanted was to leave; but that was forbidden, and if she mentioned it she knew Erik would grow angry again.

He had told her to play her part, to try to see him as he wanted to be seen. And yet whenever she looked at him she could only see the mask, see the sins he had committed. How could she possibly see beyond that?

But then…she had felt compassion, when he had cried earlier. She'd hurt him and disliked herself for it, for causing him pain. When he'd cried, she had reached out as if to comfort him. It was strange, these two conflicting feelings within her. He was a murderer, he terrified her…and yet she did not want him hurt.

After all, she reminded herself, that was why she had tried to refuse to take her role in his opera as Raoul and the others had wanted. She knew what Raoul had planned, and wanted no part in it. Erik had killed, had destroyed the chandelier with barely a thought, and yet…and yet…

And yet he was keeping her trapped here. She clung to that thought, to remind herself why she must fear him.

"Christine?"

"I don't know," she said, felt dull and useless. "You do not want me to sing. I would be rehearsing if I were not here."

"I have told you," he said patiently, "you should not exert yourself today." She nodded, glanced up at him as he moved away from her. "You're lucky you didn't catch a cold," he said, kept his back to her as he went to the organ, trailed a hand across the music stand. "That would have kept you from rehearsals for far longer."

Yes, she supposed so, and perhaps she had been foolish to go out on such a cold night – but she'd felt so confused, so distraught and alone. The opera house had felt oppressive, she had felt watched at every moment by those around her. Even Meg had been watching her, chattering away as normal but her eyes fixed on Christine.

Her father had always been a source of solace, in death as much as in life. And she'd been away from everything there, away from Raoul's expectations and the managers' demands and the gossip of the opera house.

Away from Erik's ever-watchful gaze, for she had felt his eyes following her often in these last six months, although he had never shown himself.

"I needed to go," she said, a concession to him, to the implied promise she had made when she had agreed to these two days. She could not spend these two days in silence; she must try, if only to ease her conscience when the days were over and she returned to the world above and to Raoul.

Erik turned back to her, tilted his head slightly as he scrutinised her. "I know your father means a great deal to you," he said at last. "I have no real understanding of such relationships, but I know you loved him dearly."

Christine opened her mouth to speak, to ask what he meant, but checked herself. Unsure of his words, of his meaning, she said nothing. She knew not everybody felt as she did; Meg had never known her father, who had died when she was merely a baby, and there were others in the corps de ballet who had no parents, or had difficult home lives.

It would make sense, she thought, from what she knew of this man. He acted like a man who had never known a loving touch, as if kind words had been few and far between.

She could not forget how he had reacted when she said his name. Wondered once again how long it had been since anybody had even known his name.

"Yes," she said finally. "I did. I do." She loved her father; but she remembered how she had felt last night at his grave, remembered what she had resolved. To be tied no more to the past.

"How are you liking my opera?" he asked, changing the subject – so changeable, and for a moment Christine felt left behind. "I know you did not want to perform it – oh yes, I heard that meeting, Christine." There was a bitterness in him as he looked at her, and Christine bit her lip, wondered how many secret passages there were in the opera house.

"I did not want to perform it," she agreed, looked up at him and braced herself for his inevitable reaction. "I did not want to be anybody's puppet, and that's all I have become. You only want me to sing, and they want me to be bait for you." She was angry, she realised – and the realisation of how angry she was almost took her breath away.

"Bait," he muttered. "Yes, that is what they have made you. If you go along with them." He came to the fire, sat stiff and upright on a chair opposite her. "But is that truly the reason, Christine? You do not dislike the work itself?" Eager, hopefully – so hopeful, so needy. She could create or destroy him with her words, and it scared her.

He scared her. So intense, so passionate. So desperate for any scrap of approval, of kindness. But could she really deny him the kindnesses she would give to anybody else without a thought?

"It isn't like anything I've ever sung," she said slowly. "But I…I do like it." His reaction was instant, his pleasure obvious. His mouth stretched in a smile, and she remembered now what she had thought last night when she had first seen the expression on him, how pleased she had been to see it.

"Perhaps tomorrow you could help me," she said, an olive branch, a peace offering. He recognised it, nodded.

"Yes," he agreed. "But not today." The reminder that he wanted her to rest, to recover, made Christine remember once again her forced repose here. Here in his home she must do as he willed; imprisoned by his desire to be…

To be what? Normal? But his own actions had denied him any normality. She wanted to ask him why he had killed Buquet, why he had sent the chandelier crashing down. Carlotta had been forced from the stage, after all – she had been made the star once again, which was what he had wanted. Why, then, had he cut the chains that held the chandelier and brought it down to ruin on the stage?

But she knew why. She knew. He had been there on the roof, that night when she had fled the stage in terror and gone up there with Raoul. As far away from the cellars as she could be without leaving the opera house, but he had been there. She'd heard him calling her name, after all, although Raoul had tried to convince her it was but an echo.

It was why, after all, she had concealed the engagement from everyone around her – a faint hope that she was wrong, that her Angel had not been there, that she could keep the news from him. She had known how he would react, and his actions since finding her at the graveyard only strengthened that knowledge. Erik was jealous, so very jealous. He had destroyed the chandelier to punish her for what he perceived as her betrayal.

"Come, Christine," said Erik, breaking into her thoughts. "You must not sit in silence." It would have been teasing but for the hint of menace she saw in him. It was a reminder that she had promised to treat him as other men, and Christine nodded, tried to shake away her fear and to find a topic of conversation.

But all she could think of now was the chandelier, and Raoul, and the ring that hung from a chain around her neck.

"Christine."

"I'm sorry," she said, flinched away from the anger she was sure he was feeling. "I don't know what you want me to say!" She could not please him, she thought wildly – either she said nothing, and he rebuked her for her silence, or she said the wrong thing and he grew angry.

"You used to talk to me with ease," he commented.

"I used to believe you were my friend," she said coldly. "But no friend would keep me trapped like a prisoner!" She saw the flash of anger across his face, the snarling mouth and narrowed eyes. But she would not apologise for speaking the truth, although she flinched back in her chair and dropped her gaze to her lap again.

Silence, broken only by the flames crackling in the fireplace. Christine turned her head to watch the fire, the pictures formed by the flames, the glowing coals and the occasional spit of a spark.

At last he sighed, shook his head. "All I ask is that you try," he said, his voice small and forlorn, so alien to what she knew of him that she looked at him once more, startled. "Is that truly too much to ask of you, Christine? You claim you are no longer a child, and yet you see me with a child's eyes still."

The reprimand hurt. Habit made her want to please him, to do better for him. He had been her teacher for so long – so much longer than she had been afraid of him – and she found she still wanted to make him proud of her.

To please him.

She lifted a hand to her head, struggled once again with such horribly conflicting feelings, and Erik leaned forwards at once.

"Is your head hurting again?" he asked, pushed everything aside to see to her comfort, and it almost made her feel worse. Everything he had done was because of her. He had created that lovely bedroom, he had tended her wounds, he had taught her to sing. And yet the bad things were because of her too – the chandelier, and keeping her here. She inspired both good and bad in him, and it made her feel…

It made her afraid, because she did not know how to keep the good and send away the bad. She did not think she could do it, because there was Raoul, Raoul who loved her and whom she loved, and she must not return Erik's feelings.

The chain was heavy around her neck, the ring a weight on her chest.

"No," she said at last. "No, my head doesn't hurt. And…and you're right." He tilted his head, a silent enquiry. "It…it isn't too much to ask. I will try, Erik. I promise." She hesitated, twisted her hands together. "But…but all I know of you is music," she admitted. "I do not know what to say."

He was silent for a long moment, one hand moving idly as if conducting some unheard music. Christine waited, tried to exhibit the patience he had always shown as her teacher. It was not among her virtues, but she must be patient now, if she had any hope of being allowed to leave. She must be patient and kind to this man who had surely never known either.

"I would like to know," he said at last, slowly and with great consideration, "about your time at the cottage by the sea in Perros-Guirec, and your red scarf."


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine was surprised, opened her mouth to speak but checked herself, thought carefully. Erik leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out, languid and feigning relaxation – feigning it only, for she saw how the fingers of one hand gripped the arm of the chair.<p>

"Why do you want to hear about something that will only hurt you?" she asked at last. "My memories of then are tied up with my memories of Raoul." The flinch was there, if she looked carefully. He flinched at Raoul's name. She licked her lips, a little nervous to have said it so bluntly. "I – I don't want to hurt you," she whispered. "Please, I don't, truly."

"I wish to know," he said softly. "Will you tell me?"

Christine sighed, closed her eyes for a moment. She had warned him – it was no longer her fault if he grew angry. So she remembered, she thought about the summer they had spent in Perros-Guirec, and when she opened her eyes again he was still watching her, still waiting.

"I was nine. I thought it was a holiday – at least, Father wasn't working." She'd been so happy at being in a new place, being beside the sea, that she hadn't seen the growing weariness in her father, the growing illness. "We were there for three months, and I spend most of my time by the sea." She smiled then, recalled the salty smell and the way it had permeated everything. Even lying in bed at night, she'd been able to smell the sea.

"And the boy?"

"He was there with his family," she said, ignored the bitter way Erik spoke of him – the way he avoided saying Raoul's name. "He ran into the sea to save my scarf." The red scarf, the only thing she had left of her mother. Her father had still had her mother's wedding ring, but that was buried with him. The old, faded red scarf was all that was left of the mother Christine had never known.

She had never told Erik that; she had spoken with her Angel about her father, when she had believed her father had sent the Angel of Music from Heaven, but she had never spoken of her mother.

"He came to play with me after that," she said. "Father had rented a small cottage, and we played in the attic, or Father told us stories and played the violin." Looking back, with the benefit of distance and age, she could see how unusual that summer had been. Before then her father had been almost continually on the move, continually seeking employment. But that summer had marked a change, and she knew now how ill her father must have been.

"He died that autumn," she said. "Father. He brought me to Paris to meet Madame Giry, and then he died."

"And then you came here," murmured Erik. "I remember that autumn." He sighed, turned his gaze away from her so the mask was facing towards her. "I do not remember my father," he said, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him. "And my mother…" He shook his head, and she could see his eyes were closed. Whatever memory she had stirred, it pained him.

She was curious, of course, but she did not ask. She had learned that lesson well, had learned not to be curious about this man.

He shook his head again, as if shaking off the memory. "Eight years is a long time," he observed. "I'm surprised the Vicomte remembered the daughter of a poor violinist." He was sneering, his disapproval clear, and Christine measured her breathing, refused to rise to his bait – countered with the truth.

"So was I," she told him. "I was very surprised he remembered me." She shrugged slightly, remembered that night six months ago when Raoul had come to her dressing room and teased her about her red scarf. Then she sighed, lifted a hand to play with the chain around her neck. "I don't want to talk about Raoul," she said. "Please…I will tell you anything you want to hear, but not about Raoul."

"Why?" he snapped. "You're going to marry the boy, you ought to be able to talk about him." He rose abruptly, and Christine shrank back in his chair, afraid he would come closer, so afraid of him when he was like this. "You said you would converse with me as if I were any other man," he went on, and he did not come closer to her, stood before the fireplace with his arms folded. "Surely any other man would be allowed to know about your engagement?"

"No other man is jealous!" Christine cried, tired of circling around it. Erik whirled around, stared at her as if he hadn't expected her to say it. "Please, I don't wish to hurt you, and surely that's all it will do if I speak of Raoul!"

"You – you – " Erik fell silent, shook his head, stared at her. Christine clutched the ring tightly in her hand. "You are…trying to be kind," Erik said at last, wonderingly. "Is that it? You are trying to…spare my feelings." Christine nodded, mute. He tried several times to speak, his fingers moved restlessly. The sight moved her to compassion once again, compassion for this poor man who had no understanding of that feeling.

Who had ever shown him compassion? And how badly had she treated him, that he did not expect it even from her?

Compassion. Could she try to push aside her fear and focus on compassion? That was what he was asking her to do, after all. To look past his face and try to understand the man. Yet his anger was so terrible, and so quickly roused. She never knew from one moment to the next how he might react to her.

"You do not wear his ring," said Erik then, came towards her, knelt at her feet. It made him look oddly vulnerable, not something she had ever associated with him before. But he was vulnerable, she knew he was – that was why she didn't wish to speak of Raoul, after all. "Why is that, Christine?"

She shook her head, dropped her hand into her lap. The chain felt heavy around her neck still, a burden almost, and she hated herself for thinking of it like that.

"I don't know," she whispered. "At first…at first it was because I knew you would be angry with me." He seemed to flinch at that, but he must know that she feared his anger. "That's why you crashed the chandelier, isn't it?" she asked, didn't know where her daring came from. "Because…because you saw us on the roof."

"Yes." He bowed his head, as if ashamed. Perhaps he was; perhaps he regretted his actions. "You ran there to get away from me," he said, and it would have been an accusation except for the way he said it – bitter, resigned. "I have done nothing but drive you from me," he muttered eventually.

"Erik…" She trailed off, didn't know what to say. It wasn't entirely true, although she wished it were – wished it with all her heart. But it wasn't true. She was still drawn to him despite her fear, despite her own better sense. Despite Raoul.

Despite everything, she still cared for him. Yes, perhaps he had driven her away – certainly she had not sought him out in six long, lonely months – but still she cared for him, at least a little.

She wished she could make some sense out of her own muddled feelings. She was terribly afraid they were all three going to end up hurt if she did not work out how she felt and why. And she did not want either of these men to be hurt. Dear, sweet Raoul, and poor, abused Erik.

"Forgive me," he said then, rose and went back to his chair. "I should not have asked you that."

Christine murmured something, could not decide if he did or did not have the right to ask her such a question. Meg had asked it of her, after the masquerade ball when she had followed Christine from the grand foyer, followed as Christine fled from the Ghost. She had asked why Christine did not wear Raoul's ring openly.

She'd had no answer then, as she had none now. She simply knew that she could not wear it. Not yet.

"Perhaps you are right," Erik went on. "We should speak of other things." Christine nodded, cast about for some safe topic of conversation. But she could think of nothing; thoughts of Raoul crowded all else out of her mind. Thoughts of his growing impatience at her indecision, of the plot he had hatched to catch Erik.

The plot that she was being forced to take part in.

"What is it, Christine?" Erik asked her, gentle once again. "Is your head aching? You must tell me. You scared me so last night, I was afraid you had injured yourself badly."

"No," said Christine, tried to smile at him, to reassure him. Her head did not ache – or only a little, anyway, a residual ache behind her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, sorry for scaring him despite the way he continually scared her. "I…I don't remember very much of it," she had to admit. "Was I very ill?"

"You did not remember things," he said, vague. "But it passed. I do not think the concussion is severe, but you must tell me if you have a headache, or become dizzy or nauseous again." He paused, seemed to read something in her expression, and he shook his head slightly. "I only say this because I am concerned for you," he sighed.

"I know," she said, and her smile deepened as she looked at him. He exhaled, and his hands visibly trembled for a moment. Christine did not comment on it, glanced away from him and felt her cheeks flush. He reacted so strongly to something that anyone else would take for granted – just a simple smile.

Nothing like Raoul, who accepted her smiles as his due, held her hand quite casually, and assumed her kisses were plentiful and would always be freely given.

She wondered how Erik would react to a kiss.

Her cheeks burned, she could not look at him, hoped the candlelight was concealing her blush. She could not think of such things, should not even be thinking of it. She was engaged to Raoul, after all – and Erik's face, his actions, ought to be enough to repel her even if she were not engaged.

"Would you play for me?" she asked then, her words almost jumbling together in her haste to get them out, to distract him from whatever he might see in her expression. "I – I have missed your music."

"If you wish," he said. He rose, his movements so elegant and economical, and went to the organ. Christine hesitated for a moment and then rose to join him, stood close enough to watch but kept a careful distance between them. "Do you have any preferences?" he asked her, glanced over at her and settled his hands on the instrument.

"No," she said. "Unless you will let me sing."

The briefest of smiles crossed his face. "Perhaps later," he conceded, "if you have no more symptoms of the concussion." He turned back to the organ, an expression of intense focus on his face.

He played; and Christine stood beside the organ and listened, and let his music take her away from everything. From the confusion, from the terror – from everything.

He played, and she could no longer remember why she had ever objected to staying here with him.

* * *

><p>Comments are love :p<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Erik prepared lunch for her, and Christine sat at the table and watched, propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand.<p>

She felt more relaxed than she could remember feeling in a long time, and she knew it was the euphoria of his music. He had created that euphoria in her before, both as her teacher and that night when he had revealed himself, and she knew she should probably try to resist. She should probably force herself to remember all the complications that would keep her from feeling this relaxed, this peaceful.

But she could not; and after all, she had promised Erik to try.

"How do you get water here?" she asked idly as Erik filled a kettle from the tap. "Surely it's not from the lake?"

"Hardly," he said, not sparing her a glance as he moved around the kitchen. "It's not good enough to drink, although I use it for other things. I am supplied by the same pipes that supply the opera house." He gestured at the ceiling. "We're not far below the lowest cellars, after all."

"But surely it wasn't designed that way?" she asked, before she could think better of the question. The euphoria was making her careless, she thought, making her tongue loose. She did not want to anger Erik by asking questions – yet he seemed to have no objections, was answering her easily enough.

"It was," he said. "I helped design it."

That was enough to sober Christine, to make her remember how little she truly knew of this man. If he had helped design the opera house, he must be at least forty years old, or probably nearer fifty.

Old enough to be her father; perhaps that was why it had been so easy to believe her father had sent him. And yet he did not act like a man of fifty, did not move the way she had seen men of that age move. He was as spry as Raoul, even – or perhaps even more so. No, she decided, whatever his age, she could not have guessed it. But to have helped design the opera house he must be more than twice her age.

And clever. Oh, she knew he was clever, but she'd had no idea he was an architect as well as a musician, composer and teacher. So many things, this man hidden away under the opera house.

Christine wished, quite suddenly, that he did not have to hide. That the world could accept him as he was. Then the thought was gone as Erik brought her lunch – a bowl of soup, more of the bread he had served her for breakfast, another cup of milky coffee. He was eating too this time, she saw. It pleased her, although she wasn't quite sure why.

Perhaps it was a sign that he was growing more comfortable with her; perhaps it was simply that he had eaten breakfast before she had awoken earlier and was now hungry.

Whatever the reason, it made the meal more pleasant for Christine. She was able to enjoy the food, to taste it as she ate, and she couldn't help wondering if his skills were without limit. He could design buildings and create operas as easily as he had made lunch for her.

Next to him she felt hopelessly young and horribly stupid. All she could do was sing and dance – and she couldn't even dance particularly well.

Raoul never made her feel stupid, no matter how many hopeless blunders of social etiquette she made. It was true that he sometimes laughed, but it was not meanly meant. He never made her feel inadequate, for he himself was merely another normal human being. Not a genius like Erik, for a genius he was.

But Raoul felt terribly far away, somehow. She knew he was probably searching the opera house for her right now. Nobody knew the way down here, nobody could possibly find her, but she knew Raoul would be trying. She knew he would suspect the Phantom had spirited her away once more.

She couldn't quite decide how she felt about that, and the realisation gave her pause. There had been a number of realisations this morning, and she couldn't make sense of them all. She loved Raoul, and he loved her, and she should not be thinking of Erik kindly. She should be quaking in fear, should be trying to escape. She should not be thinking of ways to…to please him, to make him feel less alone and abandoned.

She should not, but she was, and she fingered the chain around her neck thoughtfully.

"You are very quiet, Christine," Erik observed, startling her out of her thoughts. "Is something the matter?"

"No," she said quickly, dropped her hand and finished her coffee. "No, thank you." His sharp eyes had seen her actions though, and a scowl flickered across his face.

"He will no doubt be searching for you," he said. "But he will not find you. And you promised me two days."

"I will keep my promise," said Christine. "And…and I wasn't thinking of Raoul, exactly." His lips were pressed together, he shook his head slightly as if in disbelief. Christine did not try to explain further, doubted she could explain it even to herself. Besides, the last few hours had been so pleasant that she did not want to spoil it by speaking of Raoul – by speaking of things that would only make Erik angry.

"What will we do this afternoon?" she asked instead. "What…what do you normally do?"

"Compose, or play," he said with a shrug. "Or watch rehearsals, to make sure they aren't butchering my opera." Christine managed a smile, thought of Carlotta in particular but others too.

"I hope I'm not doing too badly," she murmured. "It's so…so different."

"You're doing fine," he said. "And you'll be more than that by the time rehearsals are finished." He rose, collected their bowls and mugs, took them to the sink. "As I said, I will help you. But only later, if you continue to be well."

"I have no headache at all," Christine assured him. "I should like to sing, Erik." She hesitated, watched him. His back was to her, his head bowed. "I…I have missed my lessons," she admitted, barely a whisper but certainly loud enough for him to hear her.

"That is…good to hear." He didn't turn to look at her, remained where he was by the sink, and Christine bit her lip, hoped she hadn't upset him by speaking the truth. She had missed her lessons, had missed his patient tutelage and the way he always demanded more from her.

Nobody else demanded such perfection from her, made her want to reach that perfection. Raoul could never understand that, could never hope to understand it.

"Go through to the other room," Erik said then, glanced over his shoulder at her. "I will be with you soon, after I have washed up."

She recognised the command in his words, nodded and rose, left the kitchen and returned to the music room. Erik had left the candles lit, but the fire was dying down and Christine went to it, shook the poker through the ash and put another log into the grate. Then she knelt back, stared into the fire, wrapped her arms around her middle and tried to make sense of things now she had a moment alone.

She loved Raoul – but why did she love him? He was good, and sweet, and kind. He appreciated her, made her feel beautiful and loved and safe.

And Erik. Erik, who was so passionate, so angry…so abused. Poor, wretched Erik. How did she feel about Erik? She feared him, yes, of course she did. But her fear was not all she felt.

Erik. She shook her head, lifted a hand once again to the chain around her neck. Erik had trapped her down here, had separated her from Raoul and would not let her go back to him. He had done so many bad things, had created so much fear. Yet she could not help feeling compassion for him, for the life he must have known, for the way he reacted to the kindnesses taken for granted by Raoul.

A smile, a touch. A friendly word. All these things were devoured by Erik as if they were crumbs and he a starving man. It made her heart ache for him.

She had promised him two days, and had promised to try to see beyond her fear and the stories of the Opera Ghost. Was that what she was doing now? Was she seeing beyond his mask, beyond the terror he inspired in her? It must be, because if she still felt that vivid terror surely she could not feel compassion, could not feel…

She closed her eyes, hugged herself tightly. She could not feel desire for him if she were still terrified. And although she would deny it to anyone who asked, to herself she could admit that she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. He was so passionate, so intense, that she was sure it would be a very different experience to kissing Raoul.

Raoul who was so gentle with her, so careful. So mindful of propriety, too, and although Christine knew she should value that, still she could not help but wondering how Erik would kiss her.

Buquet, she reminded herself. The chandelier. Her incarceration here, in the dwelling under the opera house. These were reasons enough to keep that dark desire at bay, even were she not engaged to another man.

But she could not wear Raoul's ring, and she tried not to realise why. Tried not to realise that it was all because of Erik.

"Christine?"

She jumped, startled, looked up to find Erik standing above her. His head was tilted slightly, quizzically, and she flushed, glanced away. He held out a hand to help her up, and after a moment she took it, rose and smoothed her skirts down.

"You look…" Erik trailed off, shook his head. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," she whispered. "…No. Oh, Erik, don't ask me that, please." He looked at her for a moment longer, then his lip curled in a sneer and he turned away. He went to the low couch where she had slept, that night so many months ago, and he sat, his hands clenching into fists.

"You promised you would try," he muttered angrily. "What more can I do, Christine?"

"Oh, Erik, no," she said, lifted a hand to her mouth and shook her head. "No, please…you don't understand." She went to him, knelt beside him and looked up at him. "I'm so terribly confused," she admitted. "You are so confusing, Erik. But I wasn't thinking of Raoul. Please believe me."

He looked down at her, eyes wide and anger fading now as she knelt before him. He reached out as if he wanted to touch her, stopped short and let his hand fall.

"But you were thinking you do not wish to be here," he said, accusing her. "Deny that, if you will."

"I do deny it," Christine said, not quite a lie. "Please." She paused when he did not respond, took a deep breath and tried to formulate her thoughts into words. "You asked me to see beyond my fear," she said at last. "And…and I am trying, truly I am. But you are asking me to look beyond what I have believed for six months, and you must….you must try to understand that I don't…"

"You don't what?" he asked her, a little gentler now. He reached out again, brushed a finger across her cheek. She shivered, but it was not fear that made her shiver, was not revulsion. But Erik did not know that, and he sighed, pulled away once more.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I'm so confused."

"It doesn't matter," he said resignedly. "I should not expect…"

Christine lowered her head, clasped her hands together in her lap. He did not expect anything from her but to be shunned, and she could not tell him all that was in her head and her heart. She could not explain to him what she did not understand herself.

"Come," he said then, "perhaps a lesson is the best way to pass the time. If you are sure you have no headache or dizziness?"

"None at all," she said truthfully, and followed him to the organ.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>For the duration of the lesson, Christine was able to forget all else. She fully immersed herself in the music of Erik's opera, revelled in the instruction he gave her and found herself performing better than she had done in the three weeks of rehearsals above.<p>

Erik was a careful and patient teacher, even when it was his own work that she sang, and Christine wondered how she had ever thought she could be without his tutelage. How she had managed for six long months without it, without him.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed when at last Erik told her that they must finish; but she could admit that she was tired, and her head was aching slightly now, so she was glad to go and sit in the chair by the fire.

"You did very well," Erik praised her as he went to refresh some of the candles around the room. "You are grasping the score much better than I had hoped." She smiled at the praise, leaned back in her chair and watched him idly. "And you have not grown lax since our last lesson," he continued. "I was afraid…"

"I would never let myself forget the good habits you have given me," she said quietly. No, she could never allow that. She might have been terrified of him for the last six months, might have dwelled only on the bad, but she could never forget her Angel, her teacher.

She could never do him the disservice of forgetting his teaching.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked her abruptly then, and Christine nodded, offered him another smile. He almost preened at the expression, at just a simple smile. "And your head – you're still feeling well?"

Christine hesitated a moment too long, and instantly Erik came to her, leaned over her and put a hand to her chin, lifted her face so he could look into her eyes.

"Headache," he deduced. "Any dizziness? Confusion? Nausea?"

"A slight headache," said Christine, not daring to pull away from him. "That's all – I'm sure it's nothing."

"It's not nothing," he said, almost snapping, but she knew it was from concern for her. He lowered his hand, shook his head, and Christine bit her lip and waited for his verdict. "I think you should rest," he decided at last. "The lesson was too much. You must go and lie down, Christine."

Argument would be futile, Christine knew. She had no desire to rest, to go into her dark bedroom – and yet she could not deny that her head was aching and the quiet coolness might help.

It would also give her some time alone, much-needed time. Her thoughts were so muddled and chaotic in his presence, and solitude might allow her to come to some conclusion. She hoped so, anyway, and nodded her head, rose to obey his command.

"Just for an hour or so," he said, and Christine nodded again. "I would rather you didn't have laudanum again, but if it doesn't ease within the hour I think you should have some."

"I don't want any," said Christine. "It's only a slight headache, Erik. I'm sure you're right, rest will help."

She felt his eyes on her as she took up a candle, left the music room and went to her room. She closed the bedroom door behind her, lit a few more candles around the room, until she could see well enough to undress and put on one of the nightgowns from the drawer.

The bed was deliciously cool, so good against her aching head, and Christine pulled the blankets up around her, closed her eyes against the candlelight and sighed. Perhaps Erik had been right, perhaps rest would help. Certainly it was calm and quiet in the bedroom, and although Christine did want to think things over, she couldn't help drifting into a gentle drowsiness in the soft bed for a while.

Not quite asleep, but not quite awake enough to think properly, Christine lay in the bed and felt her headache easing. Concussion, Erik had said, but she had never had one before, had no idea whether her headaches were a natural result or whether he was right to be as worried as he was.

But it was nice, she decided sleepily. His concern was gentle, warming somehow, made her feel like the most precious thing in the whole world.

The chain around her neck was twisting, confining, and she fumbled with it, pulled it off and put chain and ring underneath her pillow. She should wear it, she knew – if she loved Raoul, she should wear it. But it felt…wrong. Yes, that was it, it felt wrong to wear the ring when she had so many doubts.

That half-thought brought her out of the pleasant haze of half-sleep, and she rolled over in the bed, stared up at the ceiling, let her eyes wander over the smooth planes of rock. Doubts. Yes, that was why she did not wear the ring, that was why she could not be Raoul's fiancée in deed as well as in word.

Doubts.

But what, she asked herself, did she doubt? Certainly not Raoul's love for her – although she couldn't help feeling, somehow, that her love had become a prize for him. He was so insistent on this horrible plot to catch Erik. To destroy him. And although Christine had told him repeatedly that she had no wish to take part in the plot, Raoul seemed fixed on it as the only way for them to be together.

Once she might have agreed; once she might have thought that Erik would never let her go if he still lived, if he remained here beneath the opera house. But that had been before last night and today, before he had cared for her and shown her so completely how desolate he was. How broken.

He had said that he would let her go after these two days, if that was her choice, and she believed him. She believed he would let her go.

And she knew now with absolute certainty that she did not want that.

She didn't know what she did want, but she knew she did not want Erik to let her go – she did not want him absent from her life. He was still too important to her for that.

Doubt, she thought, and lifted her hands to her face, covered her eyes. She doubted her own feelings for Raoul. She doubted whether she loved him as he loved her. Because there was Erik. And Erik terrified her, there was no doubt about _that_. He was angry and lashed out, he had hurt her and she thought it was entirely possible he might hurt her again, in one of his angry rages. He seemed capable of anything.

And yet.

And yet there was the way he looked at her, so tenderly, so hopefully. The way he reacted to a smile, a touch, a friendly word. There was the way he treated her – and Raoul treated her as precious, of course he did, but in some ways he also treated her as fragile. As if she would break if he said or did the wrong thing.

She could admit that she had not helped that, with the way she had acted. She had been so very terrified, had sought any safe haven from the fear that Erik had created in her. Perhaps she had acted, as Carlotta had said, as if she were mad. Raoul had certainly seen her in the deepest of despairs, alone and frightened and vulnerable.

But Erik treated her as if there was some strength to her, made her want to be strong in response.

Once again she wondered what it would be like to kiss him; whether his passion would translate into his embrace. His face, though…that face…

That was a factor; it was a reason to sway her more towards the promise she had made to Raoul, perhaps. Raoul's face was handsome and whole. Raoul had no need to hide behind a mask. Erik's face was so horribly deformed that even the handsome side could not ease the sting of revulsion she had felt when she had seen under the mask.

If she were to stay with Erik, she could not ask him to never remove his mask, as he had told her he would. He had told her he would wear it always, but Christine knew she could not ask that of him. He had to hide from the world; he should not have to hide in his own home.

But could she look upon it without flinching, without feeling that disgust?

She reached underneath the pillow, clasped the ring tightly in her hand so the hard edges were digging into her skin. There were three things she must overcome: his face; his temper; and the murder of Joseph Buquet.

Any one of them was enough of a reason to send her back to Raoul, she thought wildly. Nobody in their right mind would expect her to truly be trying to understand Erik. They would understand that she must act the part, to get through these two days, because she could not escape this place without his help. They would understand the act.

But it was not an act. Perhaps it had been this morning, but the few hours she had spent down here had cleared away so much of the fear of the last six months.

It was not an act; she was seeing Erik the man, not the Angel of Music and not the Opera Ghost. And she liked Erik. More than that, even – she cared for him. Somehow she still cared for him. She did not want to cause him hurt; she wanted to ease his pain.

She did not think she could marry Raoul while she cared for Erik this way, and she lay in the bed for long moments, hid her face against the pillow to muffle the sound of her tears. Because she did love Raoul…but she was no longer sure it was enough. And if she was no longer sure, she could not risk breaking his heart by marrying him.

She could not risk breaking anybody's heart unless she was sure. Neither Raoul's nor Erik's. Something had changed within her, but she must be sure.

There was still the evening, and another day, before Erik would make her choose. Christine resolved to try to use the time wisely, to overcome her fears or discover if they were too much to overcome.

She left the ring under the pillow and climbed out of bed. Some of the candles had died, and she lit more to replace them, got dressed again – the green dress, the slippers, the beautiful clothing Erik had placed here for her use. It was cold in the bedroom now, far colder than she had felt it earlier, and she went to the wardrobe, found a shawl hanging there and wrapped it around her shoulders.

The music room would be warmer, with the fire there that Erik seemed to keep constantly blazing. She blew out the candles, opened the door and went out into the passage. The music room door was closed and all was dark, but Christine knew her way by now.

She opened the door and stopped still, stared across the room at Erik. He was sitting on the organ, his back to her, his head lowered – in his hands, she thought. He had allowed the candles to burn low, sending shadows flickering everywhere as the flames struggled for fuel.

He was crying, she realised as his sobs reached her ears. He was crying – and the mask was on the bench beside him. Christine held her breath, stood in the doorway for long, wretched moments, hated her indecision. Thought of his face, that awful, disfigured face.

But he was crying, and she could not bear it.

Her footsteps were silent as she crossed the room, feet sinking into the thick carpet. She reached out, touched his shoulder, and he started, gave a low moan of surprise and tried to turn away from her. Tried to hide his face, lifted his hand at once to cover the deformity.

"Go away," he moaned. "Please, Christine…go back to your room."

"No," she said, startling them both with her conviction. "I won't leave you like this, Erik." He tried to pull away from her, but Christine sat down next to him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him into her embrace.

She cradled him in her arms, felt hot tears on her neck as he pressed his face against her. He was shaking, deep sobs that wracked his slender body, and Christine had to force her own tears back. Tears of compassion, and of sorrow – for she had brought him to this, she knew that. She was the cause of his tears, of the deep despair that gripped him.

She had caused this, and she knew in that moment that she would do anything to make it right.


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine did not know how much time had passed since she had arrived in the music room to find Erik in such despair. Her back ached from her position, the neck of her dress was drenched with his tears. He was no longer shaking, and she thought no longer crying, but his face was still pressed against her neck and she would not make him move before he was ready.<p>

At last he tried to pull away from her, his hand still pressed against his face, and Christine let him go. He sat stiffly next to her, made no attempt to dry his face – perhaps, she thought, too exhausted from the outburst. Perhaps simply unwilling to move without his mask, and she glanced around for it, found it by her feet. She must have pushed it off the bench when she came to sit, she realised, but made no attempt to reach for it.

She did not try to see his face; she leaned against him, rested her head on his shoulder and watched the way he twisted his fingers together. He sighed, a great heaving sigh, and Christine waited to see what would happen next.

"My mask," he muttered then. "Please…my mask."

Christine nodded, leaned over and picked it up. She was careful not to look at him when she handed it over – did not think either of them could easily handle Erik's reaction if she did, if she looked and flinched.

She thought he should dry his face before putting it on, thought of how uncomfortable it would be otherwise, but she said nothing and in a moment Erik had replaced the mask on his face. Christine did not move away from him; she leaned against him again, rested her head against him again.

"This was a mistake," he said at last.

"What was?" Christine asked softly.

"Bringing you here." He sighed again, shook his head. "I was a fool. You will never…"

Christine licked her lips, thought carefully before she spoke. Could she tell him that she already felt differently? But it had been less than a day since he had found her at the graveyard, surely he would not believe her. She could scarcely trust in her own feelings, she could not expect Erik to have any faith unless she was absolutely certain.

"I'm sorry," she said. "For…for everything." She reached out and took his hand, entwined their fingers. "Please don't cry over me," she whispered. "Not after…after how I've treated you."

"How you've…" He trailed off again, shook his head and tried to pull his hand from hers. "Christine, you said it yourself. I have hurt you. I have killed. I have trapped you down here with no hope of escape. Your behaviour is perfectly rational in response."

"I can't bear to see you cry," said Christine, clutched his hand tightly. "Please. And anyway, you said yourself you didn't meant to hurt me."

"That hardly excuses my actions," he muttered. "Christine, please. I know you loathe me."

"You know nothing of the sort," said Christine quietly, with dignity. "I hardly know what I feel anymore. But…but I don't loathe you." She let him pull his hand back at last, clasped her own hands together in her lap. "I am frightened of you. They are different things."

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I suppose they are. But the end result is the same." He rose, turned away and went to the fireplace. Christine twisted around to watch him, saw as he knelt by the hearth and rested a hand on the music box there, on the funny little monkey with its cymbals. "I should never have brought you here," he said.

"Perhaps not," Christine conceded. "But I am here now. And I promised you two days." His head lifted, he glanced at her, frowned and made to speak again. But Christine shook her head, held a hand out to stop him. "Please do not send me away," she said, a plea that she could only hope he would listen to. She knew she could not stay here, knew they would be looking for her above…and yet she could not bear it if he sent her away. If he retreated once again into solitude.

"Why do you want to stay?" he demanded, growing defensive now, snapping at her. "You told me you couldn't stay – you said you were a prisoner here! And what of your precious fiancé?"

"I don't know!" Christine cried out, lifted her hands to cover her face. "Oh, I don't know," she repeated miserably. "I no longer feel sure of anything – if I was ever sure." He was silent, and her ragged breaths sounded loud in the silence. "You scare me," she said at last. "You cannot blame me for that. The things you have done…" She trailed off, shook her head, kept her eyes covered so she could not see his reaction. "But I do…care for you," she whispered. "Despite everything you have done, I…I cannot see you hurt."

"Oh, Christine."

"And I cannot bear to see you cry," she went on, dropped her hands into her lap again and stared at him. "To know that you were crying because I have hurt you – I can't bear it, Erik!"

He rose then, came back to her, put his hands on her shoulders and almost shook her.

"You do not mean these things," he said, and his voice was gentle even if his hands were not. "I have confused you, bringing you down here. In a few days you will forget entirely what you think you feel now."

She shook her head, couldn't pull away from him. "I won't," she said. "I won't. You said you were listening to that horrible meeting – you heard me telling them I wouldn't do it. Why do you think I said that?"

"You told me you had no wish to be a pawn," said Erik slowly, looking keenly at her. "And you were afraid – you were so very afraid."

"Yes," she said. "But I…I don't want to hurt you, Erik. I don't want to be part of that plot. You were my Angel." She was nearly in tears, felt drained, felt so twisted around that the certainty she'd found while resting had almost entirely fled. She was no longer sure. She thought of Raoul, but found no reassurance in those thoughts. She thought of this broken man in front of her, and wondered how she could ever overcome her fear.

"I don't want to forget," she whispered, and he lifted a hand from her shoulder, stroked his fingers down her cheek. "For six months I have let myself be…be drowned in this fear that you have choked the opera house with. But I don't want to be afraid anymore."

"You will always be afraid," Erik foretold. "You will never be able to look at me and forget your fear. You will never forget what I have done, to you and others." She didn't think he believed himself, and she looked up at him, tried to show him she meant what she said. She did not want to be afraid – of him, of his anger.

But perhaps he was right; perhaps she always would be afraid.

"Your Vicomte is right," Erik continued then. "I am a monster. And you belong with him." Yet despite his words, his hands did not move from her; his fingers stroked her cheek gently, and Christine turned her face into his touch.

"Perhaps," she said. "But I cannot marry him while I have any doubt." She met his gaze, saw the surprise in his eyes, the fear. "You wanted me to look past the Angel and the Ghost," she said softly. "Now I am doing so, and you want to send me away."

Erik swallowed, shook his head. Her skin burned where he touched her, and she couldn't help comparing it to how she felt when Raoul touched her. It was unfair to them both, she knew, but Erik's touch…

It burned.

"No," he said at last. "No, I do not want to send you away. But it would perhaps be best for us both." He traced a line down her jaw, her throat – and paused, his fingers against her fluttering pulse. "You…do not have your ring," he said slowly. She nodded, could not speak. "Why, Christine?"

"I don't know," she had to say, and Erik sighed, pulled away from her. She missed his touch at once, found herself almost breathless from it, and it was so different to how she felt when Raoul touched her. Raoul was gentle, and loving, but his touch did not make her burn.

"I'm trying, Erik," she said, desperate now, needing him to believe her – to understand how changed she felt. "Please – please don't make me leave."

"You cannot understand your feelings while you are here," he said quietly, faced away from her, and she closed her eyes against tears. "But…I do not think the Vicomte's presence will help you understand either."

No, on that point they were in agreement. She knew Raoul, she knew what he would say when he found her. He would fill her head with thoughts of the monster that he believed Erik to be. And she knew herself, she knew she had allowed Raoul to influence her too much, had allowed everyone to influence her. But was Erik right? Would staying here simply mean another influence?

Christine shook her head, stood up and went to him. She touched his arm and he jumped a little, looked down at her, and she looked back. The man in the mask, the lonely, angry man who had taught her to sing.

"I went to my father's grave to say goodbye to the past," she said. "If I'm an adult now, I must try to make my own decisions. I decided to agree to your two days, and I decided to try to see you as you are." He nodded, frowned faintly, as if unsure of her words. Christine spoke carefully though, meant every word. "Please don't belittle my choices now," she continued. "Two days, and then I will decide, as you wanted."

"I do not think I can bear it," Erik told her. "It would be better for you to leave now."

"But I don't want to go."

He was silent; Christine stared up at him and found herself once again wondering what it would be like to kiss him. He would be scared, she realised suddenly. He would be scared of such affection. Passionate, yes – he would be passionate. But scared.

"I don't want to go," she repeated. "Not yet."

"Not yet," he repeated dully. "But you will go, Christine. You are scared of me still; you cannot deny it. You will run away as you have done before."

"I don't want to be scared," Christine said again, trying to be patient with him. "Please, why can't you believe me?"

"Why?" He tore himself away from her, flung himself into his chair and shook his head. "What was it you said that night, what did you tell the boy? That I am monstrous. You, who have betrayed me so utterly, ask why I cannot believe you now?"

"I was scared!" she said, hugged herself. "You had killed a man, Erik! And that night – I was wrong, I know I was wrong to take your mask, but you had only ever been my kind Angel and then you destroyed everything I had believed you to be!"


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine fell to her knees, couldn't hold back tears any longer.<p>

"You were my friend," she wept. "You were my friend and in one night my whole world changed. Nothing was the same anymore – and you just disappeared, Erik, I thought you had left me."

He came to her, knelt beside her and reached for her, but she pushed him away from her, flung an arm across her face to hide her anguish.

"The next time I heard your voice was the premiere of Il Muto," she said bitterly. "And you killed Buquet that night. I had nothing left of you – everything was gone. And you blame me for seeking comfort where I could find it?"

"Oh, Christine," he murmured, and when he reached for her again she could not resist. He was tentative, and even now, exhausted and distressed, Christine could see how he expected to be rebuffed. But he put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her into his embrace, and she leaned against him and wept from the grief that she had carried for six months.

"You were everything," she said through her tears. "And you left me alone. You were so angry and I thought…"

"Shh," murmured Erik, stroked a hand through her hair. "Shh, Christine, don't cry."

"I was so frightened," she moaned, couldn't quell her tears, was shaking from it just as Erik had been shaking earlier. "And I had nobody – nobody, Erik! And Raoul is kind, and good, and he promised to stay with me." Erik said nothing, stroked her hair, rocked her gently and Christine turned into his embrace – wrapped her arms about him and clung to him. "You left and everything was so confusing," she accused. "You made me a star and then abandoned me when I didn't do just as you wanted."

"No, Christine," he said at once. "No, that is not why…oh, Christine, you rejected me that night – just as everyone always has. I could not expect you to be any different than anyone else."

"But I am different," she said, pressed her face against his shoulder, gasping through her sobs. "I want to be different!"

"Even my own mother rejected me," Erik told her in a murmur. "I did not even merit my mother's love, how could I hope to be given yours?"

That checked her tears when perhaps nothing else would have, and Christine pulled back enough to look at him, to stare in wonder and horror at the wretched man before her. Erik's mouth was pressed into a thin smile and he nodded when he saw how she looked at him.

"A mask was the only thing she ever gave me," he said. "My first clothing and sole comfort."

"Oh, Erik," she whispered. "My poor Erik." She put her hands on his shoulders, pressed close and kissed his cheek.

Erik was trembling beneath her, and Christine's breathing was still interrupted by sobs; but she kissed his cheek again before moving away. He did not move, did not speak. He stared at her with wide eyes, his lips parted. Shocked, as Christine had thought he would be – shocked and amazed.

"I want to be different," she whispered. "I'm trying to be different, Erik."

He lifted his hand to his cheek, as if he could still feel her kiss, and Christine waited, calmed herself. Her tears were over now, and she scrubbed at her face with her hands, wished for a handkerchief but couldn't move to find one, exhausted and unwilling to leave Erik even for a moment.

Two lost and confused people, she thought suddenly, sitting here in this dwelling beneath the opera house. Perhaps they could find a way through the confusion together, or perhaps they would lead each other further into darkness.

"Why did you do that?" he asked her eventually, his voice small, almost child-like. "Why, Christine?"

Christine shook her head, closed her eyes for a moment. "Why did you kill Joseph Buquet?" she asked, too fatigued to censor herself.

He inhaled sharply, and Christine forced herself to open her eyes, to look at him again. He had turned his head away from her so the blank mask stared at her, a permanently haughty expression, a stark reminder that this was the Opera Ghost who had killed and threatened and blackmailed.

"You will not like my answer," he said at last. "Are you sure you wish to hear it?"

No, Christine was far from sure, but she had asked the question and she must hear the answer. She nodded, just once, and Erik sighed, turned back to look at her.

"I killed him because he was in my way," said Erik bluntly. "I killed him because he knew too much. And I killed him because it was the most expedient method to remove him from my path."

Christine gagged, wanted to pull away from him but she still knelt on the floor, her skirts heavy about her legs. She almost fell, caught herself with a hand on the thick carpet, and she lifted her other hand to her mouth.

Erik had been right; she did not like the answer. To kill a man through pure expedience – it was evil, it was so terribly evil.

"Well, what did you expect?" Erik demanded, angry once again. "What would have been a better answer, Christine? Should I have lied to you, told you he threatened me, perhaps? Would self-defence have been reason enough for you?"

She could not speak; felt as though she could barely breathe. Closed her eyes and bit her lip so hard she could taste blood in her mouth.

"Oh, Christine," he said, "you would have understood that, perhaps. But I have lied enough to you over the years. I will not lie any longer. This is who I am. And you are right to be afraid."

Afraid. Yes, she was afraid of this man who killed without a thought. He was a murderer, and surely Raoul was right to call him a monster. A man who could kill like that could never be safe as Raoul was, could never be worthy of love. He had committed a sin and must surely have forfeited all right to her affections.

"And there," he murmured, "is the insurmountable obstacle. Perhaps in time you could forgive me for crashing the chandelier. Perhaps you could forgive me for deceiving you for years. Perhaps you could even look past this face – although nobody else ever has. But you could never forgive me that sin, Christine." He reached for her, tucked a loose curl behind her ear, and Christine flinched but did not pull away. "So you see," he said sadly, "it is better if you go now."

She took a deep, shaky breath and opened her eyes once more. Turned back to him and clasped his hand.

"It's not my forgiveness that's important," she said, barely managed to speak above a whisper. "It's God who you must answer to, Erik."

"God has never shown any interest in me," Erik muttered, tugged his hand from hers. "Why should I care for a deity that has done nothing but curse me?"

Christine shook her head, said nothing. There was nothing she could say to convince him, she recognised. And he was probably right: she probably would never be able to overcome this obstacle between them.

She should not have asked the question, but he had at least answered truthfully. It was some small comfort, to know that he had abandoned deception.

Her head was aching again, she realised dully. If she mentioned it to Erik, he would no doubt dose her with laudanum and send her to bed again. But she did not think it was the concussion – more likely the stress of the past…how long had they been sitting here? Christine had lost all conception of time, here in Erik's home that was lit only by candle- and fire-light.

It could be day or night, but she couldn't know unless Erik told her. How long ago had they shared lunch? It could not be too late, for she felt no hunger. But then she was so exhausted, so utterly worn out that she thought hunger might be no indicator of the passage of time.

It was growing cold here as well, and she shivered, glanced at the fire. It was dying down, needed more fuel; but she could not move, could not ask him to do it for her.

He had killed Joseph Buquet because it was easy, and he would kill again if he had to. She knew that without needing to ask it of him; he would kill if he had to.

"Go, Christine," Erik said at last, breaking the silence. "Go and fetch your things. I'll take you upstairs."

"I told you I don't wish to go," said Christine, barely managed to form the words, so very tired now. She'd told him that, and she'd been truthful. Even now she didn't want to go, didn't want to be sent away. She knew that if she let him take her up to the opera house now, if she let him send her back to Raoul and to her life above, she would never see him again.

And that was something she could not bear. Six months of his absence and then this sudden reunion had taught her that much. She could not bear to be without him, and if she let him send her away, that was what would happen, both through his own actions and Raoul's.

She could not bear the thought – worse even than thinking of the cruel, senseless murder he had committed.

"I am going to stay here," she said, licked her lips and forced herself to look at him. "Two days. I promised. You can't make me go, Erik."

"Can't I?" he returned, a hint of a snarl on his lips. "You forget I carried you down here easily enough. And surely you don't believe that I'm not capable of forcing you?" Christine shuddered, shook her head. He could force her, that much was true, but she hoped he would not. Erik sighed heavily, lifted a hand and let it drop again. "Very well," he said. "If you are sure…you may stay."

She exhaled slowly, relaxed a little. He would let her stay; he did not truly wish for them to be parted.

"I need to begin preparing supper," he said then. "Would…would you care for a bath before you eat?" He gestured at her, tried to smile. "It would warm you up. I can see you're cold."

"Yes," she said, a little startled. "Yes, that would be…lovely." He rose, held a hand out for her, and Christine hesitated only a moment before accepting the help. He held onto her hand once she was standing, clutched it tightly in his own, and Christine did not pull away. She let him hold her hand, let him look her over with that strange expression on his face.

As if he could not believe that she was real.

Then he dropped her hand, shook his head slightly. "A bath," he repeated. "I shall go and prepare it for you – I won't be long. You'll be alright alone for a few minutes?"

"Yes," said Christine, and she went to her chair, sat down and tried to smile reassuringly at him. "I'll wait here," she said. "I'll be quite alright."

Erik looked at her for a moment longer, and she could see his hands were shaking, could see he was just as wrung out as she was.

"A few minutes," he said again, and left her alone in the music room.

* * *

><p>Comments are love. Seriously.<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Erik's bathroom was just as magnificent as the rest of his home, and Christine sank gratefully into the tub of hot water even as she glanced about. Hot water came from a tank that he'd said was heated from the stove, and the bath was large enough to really stretch out in. Towels were close to hand, and her nightgown and a dressing gown hung from a hook on the back of the door. The toilet – an indoors flushing toilet, something she'd only heard about in newspapers – was screened off in a corner, and a sink was fed from the same pipes that fed the sink in the kitchen.<p>

The hot water was working wonders already, Christine found, aching muscles easing in the warmth. The coldness that had begun to seep into her fingers and toes was reversed, and Christine leaned her head back against the rim of the bath, closed her eyes and sighed happily.

She needed the solitude, needed some time alone – despite her rest earlier, she felt just as confused and exhausted as she always seemed to become when she spent much time with Erik. So passionate, so lonely. He caused her to become passionate in response. So unlike Raoul, but she was no longer sure that Raoul's safety, his calmness, was entirely a good thing.

Christine lazed in the bath for long minutes together, closed her eyes and let her mind drift. It was warm in the little bathroom – heated by the hot water tank, or so she supposed – and Christine could feel herself relaxing, could feel the twisted, knotted feeling in her stomach begin to untwist.

Had she relaxed at all in the last few months? She couldn't remember it, although surely there must have been moments, must have been minutes together when she had been able to forget all that had been troubling her.

But she couldn't remember being as relaxed as she was now. She was sure that was important, sure that meant something for her relationships with Erik and with Raoul…but she couldn't think about either of them right now, too lazy and drowsy here in the bath.

Erik knocked on the bathroom door. "Christine? Are you alright?" he called through, and Christine lifted her head, realised the water had cooled a little. How long had she been in here?

"Yes, I'm fine," she called back. "I won't be long, Erik." She reached for the soap and sponge, began to wash herself – careful not to wet her head, as Erik had instructed. Her hair was scraped back into a bun at the nape of her neck, had grown a little damp, but that would dry soon enough, and she could not wash her hair without getting soap into the cut on her forehead, something Erik had told her firmly she must not do.

She rinsed quickly, pulled the plug from the bath to let it drain and carefully climbed out of the tub. The towels Erik had laid out for her were soft and thick, much finer than her thin towels upstairs in the opera house, and she loved the feel of them against her skin.

But it was cooler now she was out of the bath, so she didn't linger over dressing, pulled on undergarments and nightgown, fastened the belt of the thick dressing gown and put slippers on her feet. Then she glanced around the bathroom to make sure she left it as tidy as when she arrived. She folded the towel she had used and placed it back on the shelf, went around the room to extinguish the candles, and then left the bathroom.

Erik was waiting for her in the kitchen, glanced her up and down as she hovered in the doorway.

"Do you feel better?" he inquired, solicitous, and Christine nodded. She did feel better, felt relaxed and refreshed. Felt able to face the evening, whatever it brought. "Good. And you kept your cut dry?"

Christine lifted a hand to her forehead, nodded again. "Yes," she said. "Thank you."

Erik pulled her chair out for her, brought the meal to the table. "I will clean it again later," he said. He seemed determined to ignore all that they had said earlier, all they had confessed and shared, and Christine did not comment on it. If he wanted to forget, she would allow it – for the moment. She had no wish to drag up all that they had spoken of, knew she at least needed some time to think things over before they spoke about it again.

And there was still a day more to be spent here with Erik, alone in his home. There would be time to speak of those things again, to speak about his sin, about the way she had kissed him. To speak about why she no longer wore Raoul's ring on the chain that went around her neck.

The meal was delicious, a stew of some kind but with spices she had never tasted before, and she exclaimed over them, saw Erik's amusement at her eagerness.

"I acquired a taste for them in Persia," he said, and Christine inhaled sharply at the crumb of information. Persia – he had been in Persia at some point in his life. Each time he revealed a little more of himself she only grew more intrigued, and yet she knew she could not ask – would not dare to ask unless he explicitly gave her leave to do so.

Some questions, though, might be permitted, and Christine hesitantly asked if he had found the music box there – that funny little music box, the monkey in its colourful robes.

"Yes," he said, tilted his head slightly as he observed her. "I don't have much from that time." Christine nodded, focused finishing her food. He had answered, but curtly – and she would respect the unspoken rebuke in that. He did not wish to talk about Persia, and so she would not ask.

She wondered how she could ever hope to love a man with so much forbidden to her; she wondered if he would ever allow her to know his past. Then she rebuked herself, because barely a day ago she'd known even less than she knew now. He was already trying to share, trying to show her what lay beyond her prejudiced view of the Opera Ghost.

And she was learning. She was putting aside her fear.

"What time is it?" she asked, when at last they had both finished. "I...it feels as though it ought to be late, but…" She trailed off, felt awkward under the weight of his amusement.

"Not quite eight," he said. "If you're tired, an early night would probably help the last effects of the concussion." He offered his words to her with no judgement; if she chose to have an early night, he would not blame her. But she was not tired – or at least, she had no desire to go to bed.

"No," she said. "Maybe…maybe you could play for me again?"

But Erik shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "No, I think…I think you forget things, when I play. It is not…" He shook his head again, put his hands flat on the table. "No," he said with finality. "Not tonight."

Christine tried to pretend she didn't understand him, tried to lie to herself that she didn't know what he meant. But she did, of course, and if he was being honest, she must try to be also. Yes, she forgot things when he played or sang. She forgot the complications, forgot the bad, forgot everything except the exquisite joy of the music. It was so easy to lose herself in it. But he was right, she thought, to refuse her that now. After what had happened before she had gone to bathe…

Yes, he was right. She didn't want him to be right; wanted to forget everything, just for a while – but he was right.

Erik took the plates from the table, put them in the sink and came to her, held a hand for her. She took it, rose and let him lead her back to the music room, sank down into her chair and smiled as he offered her a blanket.

"Thank you," she said. The fire was still sending warmth through the room, but she was wearing less clothing, was grateful for the blanket and tucked it around herself. "You're always so good to me," she murmured then. "I don't think I deserve it."

Erik shook his head but didn't answer, wandered around the room as if in search of something to do. He paused before a bookcase tucked into the corner of the room, glanced back at her, and Christine waited expectantly.

"You seemed interested in my time in Persia," he said. "I have some Persian stories, if you would care to read."

"Would you read them to me?" Christine asked at once, was rewarded with a slight smile. "Please, I'd like that very much."

"Very well." He selected a thin volume, came to sit in his chair opposite hers. "Are you warm enough?" he checked, and Christine nodded, rested her head against the back of her chair and watched him. His fingers were almost caressing the book, and when he opened it he flicked through the pages, paused occasionally and then shook his head to discard whatever he was reading.

Finally he was ready, finally he began a story, and Christine was enthralled by the stories, so different to the tales she had heard as a child.

She listened to him for hours, until the fire had burned low and the candles around the room were dying. She listened until she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, until she couldn't stop her yawns. Erik read well, his voice so wonderful, and the stories were new and interesting – so new, so different.

Finally he stopped, he closed the book and laid it aside.

"You are asleep in your chair," he said, and she could feel his amusement through her sleepiness. "It is time for bed, Christine." She nodded, covered another yawn with her hand, and Erik chuckled – such a lovely sound, she decided, a sound she wanted to hear more often.

He rose and came to her then, scooped her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a child. She wrapped her arms around his neck, rested her head against his chest and let her eyes close as he carried her from the music room, down the passageway and into her dark bedroom.

He put her down carefully on the bed, and Christine took off her dressing gown as Erik went to light several of the candles. She shuffled under the blankets, let him pull them up over her, and then reached out and caught at his sleeve when he went to leave.

"Erik," she said softly, "Erik, you do believe me, don't you?"

"About what, Christine?" he asked, sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to stroke her hair. It was an involuntary action – he couldn't help himself, she knew. He wanted to touch, and she must surely be a temptation for him, lying in bed barely awake.

She could not object, not when she wanted…more.

"Do you believe that I want to be different?" she asked, and Erik sighed, shook his head.

"I believe that you believe it," he said heavily. "But you are so easily influenced, Christine. Perhaps…perhaps you do mean it, now. But when you return to your Vicomte, you will feel differently once again."

"I won't," she said, and she reached under the pillow, closed her fingers around the ring on its chain. She pulled it out, pressed it into his hand. "I won't," she said. "I wish you would believe me."

His fingers closed on the ring for a moment, and then he lifted the corner of her pillow, put the ring and chain back beneath it. "I…cannot," he said. "Not yet." Not yet – but not never, and Christine sighed, relaxed back onto the bed. It was something, it was enough.

"Now go to sleep," said Erik, and he stroked her hair once more, trailed his fingers across her cheek. "I'll leave a candle for you, and there are matches on the dressing table for the morning."

Christine yawned, nodded, and fell asleep before Erik left the room.


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine slept deeply and without dreams, and in the morning she woke feeling more rested than she had in weeks – in months, perhaps. Some of it, she thought, might be due to the concussion; but some of it was to do with how much better she felt now she was more resolved in herself.<p>

For she had woken with the same resolve that had filled her when she fell asleep. She could not marry Raoul while she still cared for Erik – and she could not push aside how she cared for Erik and how she wanted to know more of him. She did love Raoul, of course she did…but she could not marry him while she harboured any small measure of affection for Erik, and she could no longer deny how much she had missed Erik, how much she did still care for him.

There was no light in the room, but she stumbled over to the dressing table, found the matches by feel and struck one, lit a candle. That gave her enough light to move around the room, to find the other candles and fill the room with warm candlelight. She paused for a moment, glanced around and thought once again of how much care Erik had put into this room. Everything was tasteful and pretty, everything was just as she would want it.

How long had he had this room for her? When had he started creating it? For surely it could not always have been her room, surely it must have once had some other purpose. The house had been designed and built into the earth long ago, he could not have created this room recently – but it must have had a different purpose.

She wondered how long he had loved her; wondered when his feelings had changed, for he could not have loved her when she was a child. And she was only seventeen now, barely an adult – as Madame Giry was fond of reminding her.

Not old enough to make her own decisions, perhaps. But that was part of the problem – Christine had let others make choices for her.

She sat down at the dressing table, wished once again for a mirror. She hoped she was not as vain as some of her friends, but it was strange not to be able to look at herself as she brushed her hair, to check her appearance in a mirror as she was used to doing. Still, she could manage without – must manage without, for she would not ask Erik for a mirror.

Would not admit her vanity to the man whose appearance had defined him so horribly.

So she brushed her hair by feel, tied it back with a white ribbon, and then went to the wardrobe. The dress she had worn yesterday was hung neatly near the front, but Christine hesitated. There were so many lovely dresses in the wardrobe, and she almost wished she could try them all on. Erik had said he liked to see her in green, and there was another dress in that colour, a different shade to yesterday's…

Christine stroked her fingers across the velvet of one evening gown, wondered what he would say if he saw her in it. Wondered how he would look at her.

She pulled her hand back, lifted it to her hot cheeks. She should not be thinking such things, she told herself, should not even be whispering them in her mind. And yet didn't she think such things when she was with Raoul? Didn't he too look at her in admiration?

In the end she chose a dress in pale pink, decorated with a pattern of roses scattered across the skirt. She put on chemise and corset, petticoat and dress, and slippers on her feet. She wished she could see what she looked like, spent a moment looking down at herself in the lovely dress.

She realised then that she had no idea what time it was – morning, surely, but she did not know how long she had slept, whether it was late or early, and she worried for a moment as she thought of how few hours might be left to her. She hastened around the room to extinguish the candles, left her bedroom, hurried down the passage to the music room.

He was there, seated at the organ working on something, pen in one hand as he scribbled on manuscript paper. Christine paused for a moment, stared at him and remembered another time when she had woken to find him working like this.

Remembered what had happened afterwards, how she had taken his mask and he had flown into a rage. Remembered how close he had been to striking her.

She closed her eyes, measured her breathing. No matter what else she felt for him, fear was still a factor. Fear still dominated in her heart and mind – fear of his temper, fear of his actions, fear of what he was capable of.

Then she determinedly pushed the fear aside; she had told him she wanted to be different, and so much of her fear was caught up in what others had said, how others felt. She no longer wanted to do what others did, to feel as others told her she should feel.

"Erik," she said softly, and Erik looked up at once, turned to look at her. He smiled, and Christine felt the last traces of fear melt away as she looked at him, looked at that beautiful expression on his face. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," he greeted. Then he frowned, rose and hurried towards her. "You're bleeding," he said, and Christine blinked, lifted a hand to her head. Her fingers came away red, and she shook her head slightly.

"I – I must have been careless when I was brushing my hair," she murmured, took the handkerchief he offered, wiped her fingers and then lifted it, pressed it against the cut.

"Sit down," he directed. "I'll fetch an ointment to clean it." Christine nodded and went to her chair, kept the handkerchief pressed to her head as Erik left the room. He returned quickly, carrying a small box, and he knelt before her, reached to remove the handkerchief.

"You've just torn it open again," he murmured, and Christine lowered her gaze, felt odd under his intense scrutiny. "It is trying to heal, though." He opened the box, brought out a small jar and a clean cloth, and Christine sat still as he dabbed ointment onto the cut, muttering to himself under his breath.

"There," he said at last. "It's stopped bleeding. You must be more careful, Christine."

"I'm sorry," she said humbly. "I will be." He tidied away the jar and cloth, closed the box but stayed kneeling before her, face turned up to look at her. "Thank you, Erik," she said, wanted to reach out to him – wanted it so much that she clasped her hands tightly together to prevent it. And he wanted to touch her too, she could see how his hands trembled, could see the longing in his eyes.

Then, abruptly, he rose and turned away from her. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "It's nearly nine o'clock. I would have woken you shortly, if you hadn't…" He glanced back at her, clenched his hand into a fist and then relaxed it. "The darkness here can make it difficult to sleep at the right times," he said. "Sometimes I find I lose track of time entirely."

"I am hungry, a little," said Christine with a nod, said nothing in return to his comment. She was losing track of time, could measure it only by him – knew she should be concerned about it, about time slipping through her grasp like this. She had missed yesterday's rehearsals, would miss today's – she was meant to be rehearsing with Piangi, the duet that she was struggling with – and yet she did not care.

She thought of Raoul; he would be looking for her. The more time passed, the more intense his search would become. He would search the whole opera house if he had to. Had she ever told him where Erik lived? Had she spoken of the cellars below the opera house? She didn't think so, didn't think Raoul would search downwards first – but she knew, given enough time, he would turn his attention to the cellars. He would realise that the only place for Erik to hide was beneath the opera house.

"What is it?" Erik asked her gently then, reappeared at her side, and Christine lifted her head up to look at him. "What are you thinking, Christine?"

"I…nothing," she said, a poor lie and Erik shook his head, frowned at her. Christine hesitated, thought of Erik's reactions yesterday when she had thought of Raoul, when he had suspected it. But Erik suspected it now – he was staring down at her, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed tightly together.

"I'm worried about missing rehearsals," she said, and hoped there was enough truth in it for Erik to accept her words. "We were supposed to rehearse the duet today – 'Point of No Return'? – I've been struggling so much with it, and I…"

Erik's frown faded, and although he did not give her a full smile, still there was something like the shadow of a smile playing about his mouth.

"We can rehearse that today, if you wish," he said. "But not until after breakfast. Come through to the kitchen." He held his hand out for her and she took it, let him help her up and escort her through to the kitchen.

Breakfast was the same simple meal as yesterday, and once again Erik did not join her; but Christine was easier with him now, did not feel uncomfortable as she had yesterday morning. Just as yesterday, his eyes were fixed upon her – but that had been true for almost the whole day yesterday. She was used to it, was used to the way he followed her movements with his eyes, the way he watched her with such…love. Such desire.

The meal finished, Erik ushered her back into the music room and to the organ. Christine went eagerly, eager for her lesson – both for the lesson itself, and as a way to pass the time. But she was enjoying Erik's company more than she had yesterday morning, when she had been so reluctant to even attempt to see him as more than the Ghost. When she had focused only on the way he had trapped her here, and not on why he had done so.

Because he was hopeless, she knew, he was desperate – he was so very desperate. His actions were so clearly those of a desperate man. And she did not want to think about what he might do if she still made the choice tonight to leave him, to go back to Raoul.

Would that affect her choice? She couldn't say with any certainty. She believed he would let her go, if that was what she chose to do. But she discovered, with some surprise, that it was not his actions towards her that worried her. No, he would let her go if that was what she wanted, would let her go away and marry Raoul.

But what would it do to him?

If she could not bear to see him cry, how could she possibly bear to leave him to the misery, the pain, that would follow in her absence?

"Christine?"

Startled out of her thoughts, Christine looked up to see Erik waiting for her at the organ. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I'm sorry, I'm ready." His visible eyebrow was lifted, an outward sign of his curiosity, but he did not press her, did not ask to know her thoughts. He nodded once, turned back to the organ.

"Very well," he said. "Begin your warm up, please."

He ran her through the familiar scales and practices to warm her voice, and then instructed her to begin the duet. It was the song that Christine was finding hardest in his strange new opera, and Monsieur Reyer had promised to rehearse it intensively with her over the next few days. Still, Erik knew the music better, knew what he wanted to create, and she was glad of the chance to work on it with him.

Finally he stopped playing, frowned up at her. "Technically, you have mastered it," he said. "The problem is you're not feeling it, Christine. You're just…mouthing the words."

Christine nodded miserably. "Yes," she said. "But…" She gestured at the music on the stand, tried to stand still and not flush under his intense scrutiny. "I – I can't –"

"Can't what?" Erik demanded, a little impatient. "You can do this, Christine." His impatience eased a little as he looked at her, his head tilted to one side slightly. "Unless…" He leaned back a little, his eyes narrowed a little, and Christine swallowed, clasped her hands together. "You don't understand it," he said at last, flatly. "I'm right – am I not?"

Christine couldn't speak, couldn't meet his eyes, dropped her gaze to her feet and pressed her lips firmly together. The song was about desire, was about lust – and no, she had no real experience in that. She had never been in Aminta's situation, had never desired someone that strongly.

Except…

"What about your Vicomte?" Erik asked her then, abrupt, almost spitting the words out. "Surely you feel such things for him? You let him kiss you, let him touch you – I've seen it!" Christine flinched, and Erik's temper rose again. "Oh yes, Christine, there is little you have done with him in this opera house that I have not seen," he snapped. "Come, we've been doing so well, don't start lying to me now!"

"I haven't said a word, how can you accuse me of lying?" Christine demanded, desperation rising within her as she was confronted once again with his sarcasm, his anger. "I don't – I don't understand how Aminta feels! I don't feel that way for –"

She cut herself off; but the damage was done, and Erik's breath left him in a noisy exhalation.

"Nor for him," he said. "Then why do you let him kiss you? He is handsome, surely you understand something of desire." She was blushing, couldn't talk to him about it – could barely confess even to herself how little she seemed to feel physically for Raoul. The other girls talked of suitors in ways that made her wonder, in the privacy of her own mind, but to admit it aloud…

"He's sweet," she said at last, "and good, and kind, and he wants to kiss me. So I let him." She took a deep breath, forced herself to look at him. "I don't want to kiss him as much as I want to kiss you," she said.


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Note: Apologies for the delay. I had a very sudden health scare, and ended up needing a minor procedure on my eye as well as discovering I have a degree of permanent damage in one eye. I'm sure you'll all understand that for the past couple of days updating a fic has been the last thing on my mind!<p>

* * *

><p>Erik was silent for a long moment, stared at her, and Christine made herself look back, made herself meet his gaze.<p>

"Don't be ridiculous," he said at last, and her breath caught in her throat, she closed her eyes and fought back desperation.

"If I tell you I love Raoul, you ask why I cannot love you," she whispered. "And if I try to tell you how I feel for you, you tell me I am being ridiculous. I cannot win." She turned away from the organ, away from him, wrapped her arms about herself and wished everything could be simple again, as it had been before that night six months ago when she had been made a star and he had revealed himself. Wished for life to be as it had been then, and knew it never could be.

"I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true," said Erik, but the bite was gone from his voice. "Nobody could ever wish to kiss me. You are being a ridiculous child to say so."

"If you say so," said Christine dully. She could not fight with him about this, could not begin to argue because she could barely even think about it. She remembered how she had felt that night, when he had brought her here the first time and revealed himself to her. She could remember the burning of her skin, the ache deep down within.

Yes, she knew a little of lust. A little of desire. But not enough to know how to put those things into her song, as Erik wanted. As the role demanded. And certainly not enough to speak of it to Erik, of all people – Erik, the only man she had ever felt desire for, even when she had been repulsed by his face. Even then she had wanted him still, her desire so bound up with his voice and his power over her and…

"Christine." He had come to stand beside her, silent as always, and Christine jumped a little. She opened her eyes, looked up at him, bit her lip hard to keep from speaking – hard enough to hurt, and Erik reached out, touched her lip gently. "Don't do that," he chided, his voice soft, distressed. "I can't bear to see you hurt, Christine."

"You're hurting me now," she whispered, and he flinched. "You want me to try to see beyond…beyond everything everyone says of you, but when I try to tell you how I feel…"

"You don't feel it," he said at once. "It's an illusion, Christine." He withdrew his hand, shook his head. "Above, you are overly influenced by those who fear me," he said. "And here…you are overly influenced by me."

"Oh God," Christine moaned, threw herself away from him, lifted her hands to her face. "Why can you not believe me? That I know what I'm thinking?"

"Because yesterday you denied that I was even your friend," he snapped, and Christine choked on her sobs. "Yesterday you told me you love the boy and want to go back to him! And you are surprised that I don't believe you today when you claim to have changed so completely in barely a handful of hours?" She couldn't look at him, covered her eyes with her hands. "And you admitted yourself that you're confused," Erik continued. "You don't know what you're feeling, and I can't let you…"

Christine took a deep breath, let her hands fall to her sides. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes stinging with hot tears. "You're right," she murmured. "I am confused. About a lot of things. But I told you I care for you – I told you that, Erik."

"Yes." He was silent for a long time, so long that she glanced at him, found him staring away from her, staring at nothing. She wondered what he was thinking, wondered so many things and could ask none of them.

"It's not an illusion," she said at last. "I told you. I'm trying to…trying to be an adult, to make my own choices." She closed her eyes again, felt herself swaying a little. She felt so exhausted, and it could be barely mid-morning. He was exhausting, his capricious moods made her weary. "Perhaps you're right," she went on. "Perhaps I'm only feeling this because you want me to feel it. But I…I wanted to kiss you that night you brought me here."

He exhaled sharply, and Christine swallowed but forced herself to continue now she had begun.

"I wanted you to kiss me," she said. "I…I said I didn't understand desire, but…"

He stared at her as if fascinated, moved towards her as if drawn by something, and she knew how that felt – knew how it felt to be drawn almost without conscious awareness, because that was how she so often felt around him. That was what had happened at the masquerade, when he had beckoned for her and she had stepped towards him, so powerless in the face of her desire for him. Her need for him.

When he stopped moving he was within reach, and Christine wanted to touch him, wanted to caress his cheek and to bring him close enough to kiss. She wanted to, but she restrained herself. He did not believe she could be capable of wanting such things with him, and she would not give her embrace to him unwillingly.

"If I kissed you," he murmured at last, "I do not think I could let you go."

The words hung in the air, a confession that he could not retract and she could not make unheard.

"Do you understand?" he asked her, demanded of her. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

Christine swallowed, nodded her head. Yes, she understood. If she kissed him – if she let him kiss her – it would be the end. There would be no choice to make, for he would not allow it. He would not be able to let her go if she kissed him, kissed him properly and lovingly. He would not be able to bear it, would keep her by force if he had to.

Yes, she understood. She understood that she must be absolutely certain before any decisions were made – and yet how could she be certain? Erik was right, being here with him was influencing her, of course it was. But she did not think that was a bad thing, could not think that, not when she was finally learning to see behind the mask. Behind the stories she had been told and the stories she had believed.

How could she be certain, without leaving him? Without going back to the real world and finding out whether her feelings held even then, even when she was back with Raoul and Meg and everyone who feared the Phantom?

"Do you understand?" he demanded, ruthless now. "Say it, Christine."

"I understand," she whispered. She felt faint, felt the beginnings of another headache. She wanted to sit down, but couldn't bring herself to move. And Erik was so close to her still, so close she could touch him if she were just to reach out.

She didn't reach out; she turned away and went to her chair, sank down into it and pressed her fingers to her temple.

"Another headache?" Erik asked, seemed able to push everything else aside in favour of concern for her health. "How bad is it, Christine?" He came to her side, knelt before her and took her free hand. "Perhaps the concussion was worse than I thought."

Christine tried to smile, tried to reassure him, but didn't quite manage it. "It's just a headache, Erik," she said. "I – I'm sure it's nothing."

He shook his head, disregarding her words. "Concussions can have lingering effects," he told her. "You may find you have headaches or dizziness for some days. But you must tell me, Christine. I can only help if I know that you are in pain."

"It's only slight," she said, and she squeezed his hand gently. "I – I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" he asked, looking up at her. "You have nothing to apologise for, Christine." She shook her head, a silent disagreement. She had many things to apologise to him for, but she wouldn't speak of them, not now. Erik pressed his bloated lips together, almost a scowl. "A cup of tea," he decided, "and a more restful time, for the remainder of the morning. No more singing."

"But the opera –"

"You will not suffer for another morning with no rehearsal," he interrupted her. "The premiere is still three weeks away, and as I said…technically you have mastered that duet."

She flushed, glanced at his mouth and then away – and he did not comment further. Perhaps he was as unwilling as she to go back to their discussion of desire. They would have to talk about it, Christine knew. Eventually she would have to tell him again how she had wished for him to kiss her that night, how even now she felt…felt lust when he touched her. Even now, simply holding her hand…even that was enough to make her skin tingle.

"A cup of tea would be lovely," she said at last, and he released her hand, rose smoothly from his knees.

"Of course," he said. "I will return shortly."

He left her in the music room and Christine closed her eyes, leaned back in her chair and measured her breathing. She needed the moment alone, she thought, needed to gather herself together and push aside what had just passed between them. Must push it aside, for his warning had been plain. She must be absolutely sure before he would allow anything to happen.

And she was so unsure.

But at least, she consoled herself, she had recognised that. She had recognised all that had changed, recognised the doubts about her future with Raoul that had been growing within her for some weeks now – some months, if she was honest. What was it she had said to Erik? That she did not want to be a puppet, for anyone. And sometimes she felt that was all she had become even for Raoul.

Sometimes she felt all he wanted was to use her to get to the Phantom.

And Erik – poor Erik, so lonely and desperate. She had been his puppet just as much, at times. Perhaps she was still. Perhaps all he saw in her was her voice.

But no, that wasn't right. She saw how he looked at her, knew he wanted more. Perhaps her voice had been what drew him to her at first, but it was not all he saw now.

It could not be.

"Here."

Christine shook herself out of her thoughts, took the cup and saucer that Erik held out to her, smiled gratefully up at him. "Thank you," she said. "You're very good to me, Erik."

He shrugged the compliment away, shook his head a little. Christine did not press him to accept it; she sipped her tea and watched as he went to sit in his chair, opposite hers.

"I wonder where you go," he murmured then, "when you look as you just did. You were not wholly here, just then." His eyes were fixed on her, caught every tiny move she made or expression that crossed her face. It made her feel utterly exposed.

"I was here," she said. "But…oh, I don't know. You're right, Erik, I am confused. I don't know…I don't know anything anymore." She put the cup back in the saucer, stared into the fire. "May I ask you something?" she asked, waited for his nod. "If…if I couldn't sing…would you still…"

She couldn't finish, but she didn't have to; Erik understood her meaning.

"I do not know," he said, and she swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat, bit her tongue hard. "It is something I have asked myself," he went on. "But I do not know. If I had not heard you singing, one night after you had arrived here, would I have ever cared?" He was silent for a moment, long enough that Christine glanced at him. Found him staring at her, eyes narrowed slightly. "I do not know," he repeated. "Your voice is sublime, Christine. And without it I would almost certainly have barely noticed your existence."


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>It was not the answer she had wanted to hear; and yet, Christine asked herself, had she expected anything else? Erik was a musician, a composer, and she had never once known him to take more than a passing interest in the ballet – no more than to criticise if they did not meet his perfectionist demands.<p>

"I have disappointed you," Erik observed. "What would you have liked to hear?"

"I'm not sure," she said, concentrated on her cup of tea. "I suppose I wish people would notice me for something other than my voice. You, and Raoul…" She shrugged her shoulders, drained the cup.

"Please don't put me in the same category as him," said Erik with a sniff, almost petulant in his disdain. Christine would have smiled, if he had been any other man – if his temper was not so quick. "We are nothing at all alike. He only saw you when I had made you a star."

Christine felt a sudden surge of anger, put the cup and saucer down at her feet and stared at him. "You speak as if I had nothing to do with it," she said. "I could not have done it without you, but I was the one on that stage, Erik!"

He was silent, looked back at her and tilted his head to one side slightly, as if he was curious. As if he couldn't understand her.

"You are right," he said, "you could not have done it without me." Christine bit back her retort, forced her anger down, nodded her head and clasped her hands together in her lap. "Why are you so upset about this?" he asked her. "No matter what else has passed between us, you will allow that I taught you well."

"Yes," she whispered. "I'm sorry – please, forget I said anything."

"…no," he said slowly. "Why did you say it, if you don't wish to speak about it?" Christine pressed her lips together, couldn't look at him. She didn't want to make him angry, was too tired for it, her head aching too much. "Tell me, Christine."

And she could not refuse him, not when he used that tone – that soft, persuasive, seductive voice that had such power over her.

"Sometimes," she said quietly, "I feel as if all people see when they look at me is my voice. It makes me wonder if there is even anything else to me." She closed her eyes, shut out the sight of him. "And you tell me I am too easily influenced…it makes me question everything I think I know about myself."

"Oh, Christine." He was silent then, and Christine opened her eyes but kept her gaze lowered. "I am sorry," he said eventually. "You…you are more than your voice, Christine, and I'm sorry if I have never told you that."

"But you wouldn't have ever noticed me if I couldn't sing," she said, lifted her head to look at him again. He was shaking his head, fingers moving restlessly, but it was not a denial – could not be, when he had admitted the truth to her only moments before. "No, you would not have," she said. "I would have been just another dancer. Perhaps you might have singled me out as a poor one – but nothing else."

"You weren't meant to be a dancer," he muttered, and the bare side of his face was as blank as the mask. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, couldn't see it in his eyes as she so often could. "I cannot deny that you are right," he said after long moments. "It is likely I would barely have noticed you. Perhaps only that you were Madame Giry's ward." She nodded, accepted it. "But that does not mean," he went on, leaning forward in his chair, "that your voice is all I see _now_, Christine." He paused, hesitated. "And I'm sure," he said reluctantly, "that your Vicomte sees much more than just your voice as well."

Christine nodded again, thought of Raoul and the time they spent together. It was unfair to say that Raoul only saw her voice – although she knew full well that had she stayed in the ballet corps, he would never have noticed her. Would never have remembered her. Yes, he saw more than her voice now…but then, her voice had become a tool for him. Raoul saw her talent as a way to entrap Erik, to destroy him.

More than her voice – and her voice must become secondary, if she married him. The wife of the Vicomte de Chagny could not be an opera singer. It was a thought that had troubled her much, over the last few months, until the thought of performing in Erik's opera – the terror she had felt at the prospect – had been almost enough to make her wish to give up singing altogether.

Now the terror was gone – although she was still afraid – and the idea of ceasing to perform was repugnant.

"Yes," she said at last, gathering her thoughts together. "Yes, I think he does. I hope so." She wondered whether she could share this fear with him, this trouble. "I know," she said slowly, carefully, "that if I marry him…I must stop performing."

His reaction was instant; a sharp inhalation, a shake of his head, a slashing of his hand through the air.

"Yes," he said. "I am aware of that." Condemnation dripping from every word he spoke, etched into his expression – the mask only adding to his disdain for the idea.

"I don't want to," she whispered. A confession that hung in the air between them, words she had not said to anyone else – certainly not to Raoul, who was so much looking forward to being married to her. Looking forward to having her all to himself, he'd said once.

And yet that could never be – she'd told him as much. Erik would always be there, a silent third party to any relationship she formed. He would always be in her thoughts, in her ears. She would always hear his song, would always feel his absence with an ache that nobody else could ease.

That was, after all, how she had felt for these past six months. Even in her wildest terror, she had _missed_ him. His absence, after her premiere in _Hannibal_, had been one of the reasons she had turned to Raoul – as she'd said to Erik yesterday. Rejected and abandoned, she'd sought what comfort she could find but had never stopped missing Erik.

"Is that why you haven't worn his ring?" Erik asked, his tone lighter – curious, but trying not to be, Christine judged.

"…I suppose it's partly that," she answered slowly, lifted a hand to her neck, absent-minded – found no chain, and remembered that she had left it under her pillow. She was so used to wearing it there now, its absence was strange. Strange, but oddly liberating. "I've been in the opera house for nearly eight years…so much of my life is here, and I'm not sure I want to break with that."

He said nothing, but she was aware of how intently he was watching her, how eagerly he waited for her words.

"I think," she went on, "that I could learn a different way of living. But I'm not sure that I want to. I _love_ singing – I love performing."

"Yes," he murmured. "I know. And it would be a crime for you to no longer perform. You were meant to be on the stage. The finest soprano voice the world has ever heard."

She blushed at the compliment, didn't quite know what to say. He so rarely praised her – although he'd always made it clear how he valued her voice, such flattery was strange.

"Hardly," she muttered at last. "But regardless, I…I enjoy being onstage. And I could not do that as a Vicomtesse." She sighed, lifted her hands to her eyes so she did not have to look at him. "So you see," she said, "you claim I've changed my mind only since you brought me here. But the truth is far more complicated than that."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I…see that." She sighed, relieved, dropped her hands into her lap and looked at him. It was progress, and she could savour it – because at any moment, she knew, he might return to his denial. Or worse, he would grow angry because she spoke of Raoul.

But, she reminded herself, she was sharing her concerns with him, not simply proclaiming her love. She was sharing with him her doubts, and surely he must be encouraged by that. Surely he must be beginning to understand that she had been conflicted for many weeks and months before he had come to her at the graveyard and brought her down here.

"Everything is so complicated," she said with a sigh. "Nothing is simple anymore."

"No," said Erik, more to himself than to her. "No, it is not."

"Madame Giry would tell me not to be silly," Christine remarked then, thinking of her guardian. Madame Giry was so strict, stood for no nonsense. Christine thought if she were here now, she would be reprimanded for being so silly. For fooling with the hearts of the two men who loved her. "She would say that I'm far too old to not know my own mind," she added. "She never has any patience for people who can't decide things."

But of course, making decisions was not exactly the problem she had right now: she had made some, had decided to try to see Erik and had decided that she could not marry Raoul until she was sure of herself and her feelings for both men. But those decisions had hardly led to a clarity of thought – and there were greater decisions ahead.

Not least of which would be this evening, when Erik had said she must make a choice. To stay with him, or to go.

What, she wondered, would staying with him involve? She remembered the wedding dress she'd seen that night, the dress on the mannequin that had startled her so badly. It had been too much after the strain of becoming the lead with only a few hours notice, and then Raoul's return to her life, and the revelation of her Angel of Music. She'd fainted – so unlike her, she didn't think she'd ever fainted before in her whole life – but she could remember the dress.

Could remember what it meant. Erik loved her, desired her…she thought he would have her for his wife, if she chose to stay with him.

There was another choice, she told herself. She did not have to marry _either_ man, if she was not sure. There were still three months before her eighteenth birthday, and she was so early in her career. What would happen if she chose not to marry, chose to keep performing?

But Erik would not stop her singing. He'd said it would be a crime to keep her from the stage. Surely, even if she married him, she would keep performing?

She thought of the life she must lead as Raoul's wife, and barely suppressed a shiver. Compared to the freedom, the thrill, of performing on a stage, of being part of the life of the opera house…it seemed so horribly confining, suddenly.

"You're doing it again," Erik observed, wistful, and his fingers fluttered against the arm of his chair. "What is in your head, Christine? What are you thinking?"

"Of you," she said truthfully, and was rewarded with a soft smile. Such a lovely expression, she thought, for such a lonely man. Again she thought of how she would like to see him smile more – would like to be the cause of his smiles.

She could not do that if she left.

"Would you read to me again?" she asked, suggesting it as distraction for them both. "Just for a while? I enjoyed it so much."

"If you wish," he said. Yes, if she wished – if she wished he would do almost anything, she knew. The power of it was terrifying, more even than the terror she had felt when he had killed Joseph Buquet and dropped a chandelier on her head.

She had so much power over him, and it scared her.


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>After lunch Erik rehearsed her again – a different song, the aria from Aminta's entrance – and Christine was grateful for it. In music she could forget all else, could drown herself in the notes and words and push aside the confusion and the conflict and the approaching decisions she must make.<p>

Unlike the duet with Don Juan, this aria was one she felt confident in. Here Aminta was innocent and carefree, and when she'd first seen the music, she knew it had been written to be entirely comfortable for her both musically and in terms of acting. The lesson was useful, and enjoyable – but unlike this morning, now Christine was confident, and she was sure it showed.

Certainly Erik seemed pleased, was smiling slightly when she finished – just a tiny quirk of his lips, but enough to soften his expression. Enough for to feel she had satisfied her teacher, and no matter how complicated everything else was, there was nothing but pleasure attached to that.

He continued playing even when she had finished singing, played almost idly, one melody merging into another and then another, the music twisting and turning under his craftsmanship. Christine swayed slightly, felt as though she wanted to dance to it. It had been many months since she had been a member of the corps de ballet, months since she had attended regular practices and rehearsals, but she had spent eight years training as a dancer. Music was as likely to make her want to dance as want to sing, she thought, and smiled to herself. She had never been a particularly brilliant dancer, but good enough – certainly good enough to react to music with movement, as she wanted to now.

He saw it, of course; eyes fixed on her, his smile a little wider now, he saw what she felt.

"Do you miss it?" he asked, hands still moving, still pulling music from the organ. "Dancing."

"Sometimes," said Christine, and she smiled at him. "At first it was very hard, not dancing all day. Not because I enjoyed it more than singing, but I was used to it." He nodded, said nothing, kept playing. "And I miss being with the girls," Christine went on. "Sometimes I feel…" She shrugged, her smile faded into a frown. Sometimes she felt isolated, and it only occurred to her now exactly how isolated she had become.

How lonely. Because her friends among the dancers were so busy with their own practices and rehearsals which she no longer had any part in. She had made few new friends among the primary cast. Her association with the Ghost was well-known, and any friendships that had begun were swiftly curtailed after the premiere of Il Muto. After Carlotta had fled the stage, after the Phantom had crashed the chandelier and his demands had been made known.

His demands for Christine to be the leading soprano of the opera house.

After that, all hint of new friendship had disappeared. Her cast mates were cordial, were polite, but distant. Nobody wanted to risk getting close to her. Even her friends in the ballet corps, when they had free time, seemed a little wary. Only Meg acted as if the Phantom had never taken an interest in her, as if there was no danger – but Meg was so busy, promoted to a soloist and working hard to make sure she deserved it.

"Lonely," Erik murmured, breaking into her thoughts, and she nodded – but he wasn't saying it to her, not really, she could see that. Her words had spurred some thought of his own, and she wondered, as she looked at him now, whether he had ever _not_ been lonely.

Whether he had ever enjoyed companionship, friendship, with any living person, or whether everyone – including, she remembered, his own _mother_ – had been driven from him by his face.

"Oh Erik," she said impulsively, "I don't want you to be lonely."

He stopped playing, looked at her with a strange expression on his face. "I have always been lonely," he said, quiet and almost surprised. "I am only ever not lonely when I am with you."

Christine's breath escaped her. She didn't know how to respond to him, had no words. To know that she had such power over him…to know she could ease his loneliness by her mere presence…

It was not something she had ever felt with Raoul. With Raoul she knew she made him happy, but there was no real sense that without her he was unhappy. That he would be lonely without her, or that he could not find some other way to amuse himself.

What a funny way of putting it, she thought, startled at herself. Amuse himself? Her relationship with Raoul was more than an amusement, of course it was. And yet…and yet he never looked at her in quite the same way that Erik did, the way he was looking at her now. As if all his hope and joy and happiness was entirely in her hands. As if she could destroy him with a word, or raise him to the greatest heights with the barest of smiles.

One was comfortable; the other dangerous. And yet comfortable was not, she realised, the way she wanted to live her life. She did not want to be terrified or confined, did not always want to have to think carefully before every word or touch – but neither did she want to be taken for granted.

Yes, she realised, that was how she felt with Raoul. As if he took it for granted that she loved him, that she would always smile for him and kiss him and take his arm when he offered it. Erik would never take anything for granted. He would never dare, for too much had been taken from him already in his life.

"I should not have said that," Erik muttered. "Please, forget it. Do not let my feelings influence you."

Christine shook her head, clasped her hands together. "I don't think that's possible," she said quietly. "How can it not affect me, to know that if I leave you and go back to Raoul, it will make you so deeply unhappy?"

He shook his head, clenched his hands into fists and then relaxed them. "You cannot think of that," he insisted. "My feelings are unimportant. I thought it would not matter if you were here and unhappy – at least you would be here, would be _with_ me, but I was wrong. Oh Christine, I could not keep you here if you only stayed to make me happy. Do you not see? You would grow to resent me, even if you did not begin that way." He rose, turned away from her, paced across the floor in agitation. "No, I could not bear that," he muttered. "I could not bear your pity."

"Compassion isn't the same as pity," Christine said, but he shook his head, lip curling a little.

"I do not want your compassion," he said. "I want your love."

Christine nodded slowly, looked down at her hands, thought carefully before she spoke again. She did not want to argue with him, and she felt sure that was where this was going to end up – she was sure he would throw her love for Raoul at her, would fling hurtful words at her until she broke again. But she was trying to be strong, was trying to be unafraid. She was trying to be fair to them all.

"I have always been taught that compassion is a form of love," she said, couldn't look at him as she spoke. "But that isn't all I feel for you, Erik. I – I don't know that it's love. I…I'm not sure anymore that I know what love really is."

"You love de Chagny," Erik said. "You told me so yesterday."

"I – yes," said Christine, uncertain. "I suppose I do. But…" She sighed, shook her head. "I'm not…sure," she said again. "I'm not sure that I…"

"No," he sighed. "That is quite clear."

"Oh, don't be disappointed in me," she begged, stepped towards him and stretched out a hand. "I can't bear that. Anything else but your disappointment." Even his anger might be easier to bear – at least that was solid, was concrete. His disappointment was an insidious ache that crept under her skin. It had always made her feel so wretched, even as a young girl when he had begun teaching her.

Erik said nothing, stared at her hand. She couldn't work out whether he wanted to take it, or wanted to pull away.

"There are so many things I find I don't understand," she said. "But I _am_ beginning to, Erik. I think I'm beginning to understand." His eyes lifted to her face, wide eyes and incredulity written so clearly in his expression. "Please," she said, before he could speak, "please don't tell me you're influencing me, or I'm being ridiculous, or – I know I've been horribly foolish and naïve." He nodded once, said nothing, and Christine took it for encouragement.

"I told you I've been having doubts," she said. "I told you – you saw, I've not been wearing his ring, and it wasn't just because I was afraid of what you would do."

"You can't deny that was part of it," he muttered, and she shook her head. She would not deny it – could not. Perhaps the greatest reason for concealing the engagement had been her fear of Erik's reaction, but there had been other reasons, and the longer she had concealed it, the greater her doubts had become.

"And I told you I don't…I don't want to give up my life," she said, twisting her hands together now, so anxious for him to listen, to actually hear what she was trying to say. "And I do care about you, Erik." He tried to speak but she hurried on. "I do! You were the most important person in the world to me, for so long. Even if there is nothing more than friendship, don't dismiss that. You were my Angel."

"It is not enough!" he thundered, as if no longer able to contain himself, and he stepped close to her, grasped her hands in his. "It will never be enough, Christine! I will not be satisfied with your friendship! And the longer you stay here, the worse my agony becomes. You will leave me – it is inevitable – and I will not be able to endure it!"

"You will never be satisfied," she accused him, tried to pull away but his grip on her hands was too strong. "You won't believe me when I try to tell you – you would never believe I loved you!"

"And why should you love me?" he demanded, shook her a little. "You, who are such perfection? Why should you love poor, ugly Erik?"

Christine did not think; she did not give herself time to think. She wrenched her hands from his, but only to place them on his shoulders and draw him close. She lifted herself up on tiptoe, caught a glimpse of his shock and then pressed her mouth to his.

It couldn't quite be called a kiss, because Erik was so still utterly still against her lips, under her hands. His own hands did not touch her – their only contact was instigated by her. Her hands on his shoulders, as much for balance as from her desire to touch him. Her mouth pressed against his misshapen lips, warm and soft against her own.

She wanted him to kiss her back – wanted it more than she had wanted anything in her life, she found. She wanted him to put his hands around her, to pull her closer to him. She wanted him to want her as she wanted him.

And oh, she wanted him. This was desire – this was lust. This was what she had not been able to find for singing Aminta's duet with Don Juan.

This was what was missing from her relationship with Raoul.

She pulled away from him at last, stared up at him and found him staring back at her. He murmured something, but even this close she could not make out what words he spoke – if they were words at all.

She reached up once more, kissed him again, and this time his hands came to rest on her shoulders. Neither pushing her away nor pulling her closer, but Christine took it as encouragement, closed her eyes and hoped he would kiss her back.

His mouth moved against hers, just a little. The kiss, she realised, of someone who had never kissed before.

Then he tore himself away, sped from the room as though chased by the demons of Hell. A moment later Christine heard a slam – his bedroom door, she thought, but thought no more for long moments. She sank to her knees, covered her face with her hands and wept.


	17. Chapter 17

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>At first Christine stayed where she was, on her knees in the middle of the room, and cried until she was exhausted. Cried for her freedom, because she remembered what Erik had said about what would happen if he kissed her. Cried for Raoul, because she could not marry him, would break his heart.<p>

And she cried for herself, because she knew the truth now. She knew why she could never escape Erik, she knew why she could never leave him behind. Her terror – and, she could admit, her own fatal curiosity that night he had revealed himself – had driven a wedge between them, but Erik's actions over the past day or so had brought them together once more. The time she had spent here had been enough to remind her of her Angel, and to realise how she felt for him.

She was still afraid – was still so very afraid of him and what he was capable of doing. But she could not deny the other feelings. Could not deny how she cared for him.

How she loved him.

When her tears were spent, she went to the bathroom and washed her face, knocked on Erik's door and called for him. But no sounds came from within and the door was locked when she tried it. Resigned to her solitude, Christine went back to the music room, picked up the book of Persian folk stories and curled up in her chair to read.

She barely saw the words on the paper; long minutes went by without the necessity of turning a page. The book was something to hold in her hands, something to try to keep herself occupied with, but her thoughts could not be confined to the stories within.

Why had he fled? Surely he had wanted to kiss her. She knew he had – knew what those looks meant, the way he looked at her with such adoration and desire. She had seen his gaze linger on her mouth, just sometimes. And there was his opera…his opera that had been written for _her_.

Full of desire, full of passion. It was there in him, although he was so hesitant, so sure of rejection. Yes, he wanted to kiss her, and she could not understand why he had fled.

Scared, perhaps – of himself, of her…she didn't know, couldn't say for sure. But he had left her alone, and she could not help but feel rejected.

She closed her eyes, breathed deeply for a moment. Rejected. How could she claim that emotion? How could she possibly, when he had experienced nothing but rejection from his very earliest days? His mother had not loved him, he'd said. A mask had been his first covering.

Her heart ached for him; she ached to make him better, to show him that she could be better than she had been. She could try to love him as he deserved to be loved. It would not be easy, she knew that. His temper was so terrifying, his physical power so overwhelming, and she would not be so naïve as to think she would be protected from either. Even if she were his, body and soul, there would always be some part of her that must be wary.

He had said she would always be afraid, and he was right. She would always be afraid. But if she left him, she would never be happy. She could marry Raoul, be his wife – she thought she did love him enough for that, if there had been no Erik she would probably have married him already.

But there was Erik; and she loved him. She loved him so dearly, more than she could ever have realised if the past two days hadn't happened. If he had not come to her at the graveyard, if she had not hit her head – if he had not brought her here, she would never have realised. She would have remained afraid, would have continued to let her terror drive her actions. To let other people drive her actions. She would have continued as a puppet on a string, just something for them to use.

Erik would never use her as Raoul wanted to use her. He might do many things, but he would never do that.

Christine gave up all pretence of reading, closed the book and put it on the floor beside her chair, tucked her feet underneath her and rested her head against the back of the chair. She wished he would come out, wished he was with her. How could she hope to explain herself to him if he would not give her the opportunity? It was frustrating, now she finally felt clear, to be unable to share it with him.

Because she was clear now, was sure. Those two chaste kisses had been enough to show her what she could share with Erik, and it was more than she had ever felt with Raoul. And Erik needed her so badly, whereas Raoul…

Raoul did not need her. Raoul needed a sweet, innocent, uncomplicated girl. Someone of his own class, probably, who did not have or want a career at all, let alone as an opera singer. Someone who could make him their whole world – which Christine would never be able to do.

Not when Erik already held that position, in her heart and her mind. Her life had revolved around him for years, and even when he had absented himself – even when she had run in terror and sought comfort in Raoul's embrace – he had been in her thoughts so often.

Sometimes she had been able to think of nothing else.

And that had scared her as well, she knew. The way she had still been drawn to him, despite what he had done. Despite her terror of him, she had still…craved him, almost. She had still _needed_ him in some deep, desperate way that she could never explain to sweet, kind Raoul.

Erik was not sweet, and he was rarely kind. He was dangerous and passionate and disturbed…but he was _Erik_.

She had learned to see the man behind the mask, she thought, and smiled a faint, weary smile to herself. She had learned how to, and discovered that she had always loved him. She had discovered how much he meant to her, and now she could only hope he wouldn't send her away again.

That was strange; she did not want to be sent away, and yet she had wept for her freedom. She did not want to be his prisoner. If he denied her freedom, she would surely come to resent him, as he had claimed she would. She could not happily stay with him if he _forced_ her to – he had been quite right about that. If he gave her no choice and did not allow her the freedoms she was accustomed to, she would quickly grow resentful and angry.

And yet neither would she be happy if he forced her away. If he sent her away, if he refused to see that she was now sure, that she felt more than compassion…

She did not know what she would do, if he did that. She'd begged him not to send her away, last night, and he'd hinted that he would force it if he thought it was right. He could force her to go, could carry her up through the dark passages and block the way down.

He could do it…but she did not think he would. He had, after all, said that he would not be able to let her go if he kissed her.

She lifted her hands to her face, pressed cold fingers to her aching head. She'd thought once she had worked out how she felt that things would become less complicated, but there were new complications that she hadn't foreseen, new decisions that would have to be made.

Nothing could be done without Erik, and Erik did not appear. It had been, she judged, several hours since she had kissed him. Hours since he had retreated to his room, and she had heard nothing since. Not a sound, not a whisper.

Christine forced herself to move, stretched limbs that ached from inactivity, and went around the room to replenish the candles that had burned too low. She went to the fireplace, took up the poker and raked through the ash, carefully put more coals on and waited for a moment to see if they would catch.

Then she left the music room, went into the cold passage and walked with quiet footsteps to Erik's door. She paused before it, thought of the reasons for leaving him alone and the reasons for trying to make him come out.

She lifted her hand, knocked lightly. "Erik," she called. "Erik, please…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please come out." There was no answer, but she had not really expected one, did not let it deter her. "Please," she said again. "Please talk to me. I – I need to speak with you, Erik. I need to tell you…" She trailed off, shook her head, closed her eyes against more tears. She could not tell him through a closed door – and she doubted that he would believe her anyway. He certainly had rebuffed her other attempts to tell him her feelings were changing. Had changed.

She brushed away a tear, almost angry with herself for it, and no further tears came. She took a breath, exhaled slowly, rested her palm against the door. Moved her fingers slightly, felt the grain of the wood.

"Alright," she said then. "I – I'll wait for you in the music room."

She returned to the bright, warm music room, returned to her chair and sat down, gazed blankly into the fire, which was now crackling merrily again. If Erik would not come out, she could not force him, and she would not beg.

She would not. No matter how much she wanted him with her, no matter how many things must be said now. She would not beg.

Christine leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes. The past two days had been long and weary, and she had been strained even before then. For the last few months, she had felt incredible strain from everything that had been happening. Erik, and Raoul, and the pressures of being a leading lady…Carlotta's constant sniping and the way the managers looked at her sometimes, as if wondering if she was complicit in the Opera Ghost's affairs.

She was so tired, so deeply wearied, and all she wanted was for Erik to hold her – now that she _knew_ she wanted that, she wanted it so very badly.

And it was lonely here, without him. It was lonely being in his home and not being with him. When she was up in the opera house, if she had spare time there were things she could do. When she'd still been in the ballet, there had been endless practices, but when she'd been free there had been shoes to repair, stage costumes to keep in order – even mending, which Madame Giry had always insisted the girls do themselves. And now she was no longer in the corps, no longer filled her days with dancing, she spent much of her time studying music, learning parts that Reyer said she should know.

Or with Raoul, something that would no longer be possible. She would miss his friendship, but she did not think she would miss the rest of it. That made her pause, made her wonder how she could dismiss it so easily. For nearly six months she had been engaged to him, had felt she loved him enough to marry him – or hoped she loved him enough, perhaps.

She did not know what she would do if Erik continued to refuse to come out. At some point she would grow hungry, and she didn't feel comfortable with the idea of going into the kitchen and rummaging among his things. At some point she must return above, surely – to sing in his opera, if for no other reason.

She did not know what she would do.

Eventually Christine moved again, curled up in the chair, tucked her feet beneath her and rested her head on the soft, padded arm. She could not think any longer, had to rest just for a few moments. Her head was aching and her eyes were sore from tiredness and tears.

She closed her eyes and drifted into an uneasy, uncomfortable sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Something, some awareness prickling at her skin, forced Christine into wakefulness. Her neck was aching, her legs cramping from the position she had fallen asleep in, but she opened her eyes and lifted her head.<p>

Erik was sitting in his chair on the other side of the fireplace, watching her.

"Oh," she breathed, and tried to get up, tried to go to him but the muscles in her right leg spasmed and she had to stretch it out, stayed in her chair and stretched her legs out in front of her.

"Don't," he said softly. "Don't get up, Christine." She nodded slowly, obeyed despite her confusion, despite her own wish. He was silent then, looked at her with such an expression of…longing, she decided, it was longing.

But he said nothing, and Christine remained silent as well. She didn't really know what to say, felt sluggish from her nap – not refreshed at all, and aching from being curled up in the chair.

"Why?" he asked at last, and Christine didn't pretend to misunderstand him.

"Because I wanted to," she said at once. "Because I don't want to lie to myself anymore."

"Lie," he repeated, a murmur that she could barely hear. "I don't understand." His fingers were digging into the arms of the chair, creasing the fabric covering, and Christine thought about her words carefully.

"I think," she said finally, "that I have loved you for quite a long time." He made a sound, like a choked cry, and his eyes were wide as he looked at her. "And I've been…very foolish," she went on. "And I won't deny that I'm still afraid of you. But I wanted to kiss you – and I'm glad I did!"

Erik was silent, shook his head slightly. His fingers were still now – he was almost unnaturally still, she could barely even see his chest rising and falling with his breath.

"And now you will tell me I don't know what I'm feeling," said Christine in a whisper. "You'll tell me I'm too persuadable, too easily influenced. You'll remind me that I'm engaged to Raoul. And then you'll say that nobody could ever love you, and you'll remind me of…of how afraid of you I am."

"I hardly need say a word," he said, a bite to his voice. "You seem to know my thoughts before I speak."

"Well, you've made them plain enough!" said Christine, finding strength from somewhere to withstand his scathing tone. "Why, Erik? Why can you not believe me?" She closed her eyes for a moment, measured her breathing. She must keep calm, must not allow herself to become upset or angry. If she did, he would respond in kind.

"Have I not shown you?" she asked then. "I've tried to tell you again and again that I…that even when I was terrified of you, I couldn't help but be…" He sighed, and she looked at him again, wanted to go to him but was too scared of being rejected once again.

"Christine," he said, "a handful of hours ago you told me you were foolish to ever believe me your friend."

"Please don't hold my words against me," she said, agonised. "I told you – I _was_ foolish, and so horribly confused, and I can't…I can't take back what I said, Erik. I can't pretend I never said those things, I did, but I…" She lifted her hands, covered her face. "I've been so hurtful to you," she muttered. "I know I have."

"No, Christine," he said, but he didn't believe his own words, couldn't persuade her otherwise. "Compared to what I have done to you? No, you have acted and spoken precisely as anyone would expect."

"I cannot leave you," she whispered. "The thought of the rest of my life, stretching out ahead of me, without you…" She dropped her hands into her lap but couldn't look at him.

"But you love him," Erik said softly. "You told me you love him."

"I – I do love him," said Christine. "But not enough to marry him. I think of being without him, and I would miss him but I would not…" She struggled, couldn't find the words to explain how she felt, what she meant. She could not blame him for refusing to believe her – thought of the angry words she had flung at him yesterday morning and hated herself for them. Thought of six months of his absence and knew without doubt that she could not continue without him.

But how to explain that to him? How to tell him that a single act – that chaste, innocent kiss which she had pressed to his mouth – had resolved all her doubts and confusions into a clarity that she had never felt before?

There was no way he could believe her, she realised wearily. She had never given him any reason to believe her.

She could see no way through, and she wanted to cry again but refused to be so weak.

"I meant what I said," she said at last. "I wanted to kiss you and I'm glad I did. No matter what you say, you cannot take that from me."

Silence, and Christine still could not look at him, could not bear to see whatever expression he wore. Finally he sighed.

"No," he said, "and no matter what happens…I will never forget it." She looked up at last, eyes wide, and he was looking at her so tenderly, so lovingly, that her heart leaped. It was hope, perhaps only meagre but hope nonetheless.

Christine could not resist the impulse to go to him then, rose and crossed the space between them and knelt beside his chair, reached to take his hand. Erik stared at her, did not pull away but watched her with a kind of wariness that made her heart break. Poor, abused Erik who expected a blow in place of a kindly touch.

"I love you," she whispered, and could feel his hand shaking in hers. "And if you don't believe me, I – I understand. But that doesn't change how I feel."

He shook his head; his hand was still shaking, and she clasped it in both of hers, lifted it to her mouth and kissed his knuckles.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "For…for being so stupid."

"Stupid," he echoed. "Christine…all your fear, all your _terror_…you are right to be afraid, remember that! Remember how you felt yesterday when you told me you could never love a man who had hurt you as I have done."

She flinched, shook her head, couldn't meet his eyes. She had said that. At the time, she'd thought it was true.

"But you were right," she said softly. "Raoul would put me in just as much danger as you did that night." She released his hand, lowered her head. "I told you I missed you," she said in a murmur. "I told you that, Erik. You broke my heart when you did not return to me. I thought I had offended you beyond any apology. And then…" She shrugged, shook her head again. "I told you this," she said wearily. "I told you, you killed Buquet and I was terrified so I ran away to safety, like a frightened child."

He touched her then, fingertips brushing across her forehead, moving to stroke her hair. "You are a child," he told her. "In many ways."

"I'm trying to be an adult," she said, closed her eyes at his tentative, feather-light touch. "You asked why I wouldn't wear Raoul's ring – and I couldn't tell you. But I know why." He was silent, gave her no encouragement, but he did not withdraw his hand. "I think I mistook his love for something else," she said. "And…and I think in many ways he treats me like a child. I'm not the girl he fell in love with. You've changed me."

His hand moved down her face, across her cheek, and he traced her lips with a finger. Christine held her breath until he pulled away, and then she looked up at him, saw the conflict so clear on his face.

On half his face. The mask was still there, of course, and she knew at any moment he would bring that argument to bear. He would remind her of the disfigurement below.

The face his mother had not loved.

"I told you," he said slowly then, "that if I kissed you, I would not be able to let you go." Christine nodded, remained silent. He'd said that, and she'd believed him. "I think…I think now I have no choice."

"Erik," Christine began, ashamed of the pleading note in her voice, but he shook his head, lifted a hand as if to touch her again and then clenched it into a fist.

"No," he said. "No. Enough. This is too much." He closed his eyes for a long moment, and Christine waited, barely able to breathe, her mouth dry and her throat tight. "I have no choice," he repeated. "I must let you go. For if I keep you down here now, I will never be sure."

"Erik –"

"Would you come back to me?" he asked her then, and there was something almost pathetic in his voice, needy and hurting and she nodded at once, reached for his hand once more. "If I let you go, would you come back? If you love me as you claim, you would return to your poor Erik."

"Yes," she said at once. "I won't – I won't be without you, now. Not now I understand." She wanted to say that she didn't have to leave, that she would stay with him always – but it would be a lie. She couldn't stay here always, must go up into the world if only to feel the sun on her face, the wind whipping through her hair. And she had rehearsals, performances…she had her career, and she knew Erik would not ask her to give it up.

Even to keep her with him always, he would not ask that of her. The knowledge eased a tension inside her, a knot of unhappiness that had been formed over the months she had been engaged to Raoul. Erik would not ask her to give up singing, to give up the stage. Even though he wanted her with him, he would not ask it.

She held his hand tightly, looked up at him and willed him to see all she felt, willed him to believe it.

"I will come back, if you let me go," she said solemnly. "But you were right, Erik. If you keep me here with no choice…" She trailed off, couldn't say it, but he understood her.

"I can't believe you," he muttered. "Nobody has ever…you don't know what you're saying. You'll go back up there and that boy will be with you again, and you'll forget everything you think you know now."

Christine's breath caught in her throat and she shook her head. She was sure she wouldn't – sure now as she had not been before – but she could not persuade him of it. There was nothing she could say that would convince him she would return to him, that she would not forget. Not when he had spent so long alone. Abandoned. Rejected.

"There's nothing I can say," she whispered. "There's nothing you'll believe, is there?"

"Do not blame me for it," he said, and pulled his hand from hers, leaned back a little. "You…oh Christine, you are so beautiful. So perfect. Why should anyone believe that you could love me?"

"I don't care what anyone else believes," she protested. "And I'm not perfect – nothing like!" She felt hot tears stinging her eyes once more, tried to find some way to explain it to him. "I know I've not given you any reason to believe me," she said at last. "But it's the truth. Perhaps…perhaps I always knew it and that's partly why I was afraid."

"No," he said heavily. "No, you were afraid of me because I am an ugly, brutal monster." He lifted his hand, touched his mask, and Christine worked very hard to keep absolutely still, not to flinch in anticipation.

But he did not take it off. His fingers brushed across the edge of it, but he did not take it off.

"You will go back," he said, and there was a finality in his voice, a weight that she could not ignore and could not argue with. This was not Erik speaking, this was the Opera Ghost, the fearsome Phantom, and she could not disobey. "Tonight. I'll take you back up. And then…" The severity faded, wistfulness back in his eyes as he looked at her.

"And then?" she repeated, looked up at him and couldn't tell what he was thinking. "What will happen then?"

"And then I will wait for your decision."


	19. Chapter 19

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>He left her alone again then, went to prepare supper, and Christine went to her bedroom. She lit the candles, stood in the centre of the room and looked around with fresh eyes.<p>

When she had first come into this room, she had not liked it. She'd seen only the darkness, the slightly uneven feel of the rocky ceiling, the lack of windows. She had found it claustrophobic. And then Erik's eagerness had made her look anew, and discover how far he had gone to please her.

Now she looked again, and once again she saw how much care he had put into it. The love.

How, she wondered to herself, had she not realised it before? How had she not seen how much he loved her and how far he would go to please her? Everything had been about her, that much she'd known. But she'd thought he was angry with her, she'd thought…

Christine shook her head. She couldn't even remember clearly what she had thought. The terror was real and vivid and with her still, a chill deep inside her that perhaps would never go away, but it was tempered now with the heat of realised love.

And love must be stronger than fear, because she knew now that without him, she would be empty, would be hollowed out from the constant loss.

She went to bed, pushed aside the pillow to reveal her engagement ring on its chain. A pretty ring, she had been so pleased with it, even if she had never quite felt able to wear it.

But she would return it to Raoul when she next saw him. She loved him – yes, she loved him still, but it was not enough. Perhaps it was not the right kind of love. He was a dear friend and companion, but that was not enough to build a marriage on, and she could not deceive herself any longer. There was no passion with Raoul, no desire, and when she thought of their future together it felt bleak and empty. Wholly lacking in music, the years would creep past and she would end up bitter and wretched.

Erik would not deny her music – Erik, who breathed music as others breathed air, who felt it with every fibre of his being.

Christine sighed, picked up the ring and let the candlelight play across it. She did not want to hurt Raoul, regretted that it must be so, but there was no other choice. She could not marry him, could not continue an engagement that she had no intention of honouring.

She would prove to Erik that she meant what she said. She would give the ring to Raoul, and she would return to this home under the earth.

She did not think he would send her away again, if she returned to him. There were things, though, that she would have to ask him – things she _must_ talk to him about. She could not stay trapped here, must have some freedom. Would he give that to her? He had agreed that he could not keep her here always, had understood that without freedom she would grow resentful of him. But he was no longer willing to do that, she thought. He was no longer willing to keep her trapped here against her will.

He wanted her to stay because she chose it; if she chose otherwise, he would let her go.

So she must speak to him, but it could wait until she returned. When he understood that she felt clearly, thought clearly…then it would be soon enough to discuss such things.

Christine went to the wardrobe then, brought out her dress, underclothes, scarf and cloak. She folded the clothes and scarf neatly, wrapped them in the cloak. For a moment she wondered if she should change, wondered if she should put on her own clothing for the return above. Raoul might not know that this dress was not her own, but Meg certainly would know, as would Madame Giry.

She touched her skirt, traced the rose pattern printed on the fabric, shook her head. Erik had chosen this dress for her, had put it in the wardrobe with the others in what must have been a vain hope that she would ever wear it. While she was with him, she would wear it. She would try to please him by showing how she liked his gift.

Erik called for her then, and Christine left the bundle on her bed, placed the ring on top of it and hurried to blow out most of the candles before leaving the bedroom. Erik was waiting at the kitchen doorway, and the shadows covered the bare side of his face, made the mask stand out stark and white.

That was something else they must speak of, but Christine could not do it now, could not force that confrontation. How, she wondered, could she desire a man with such a face? But she could not deny it.

Would she still want to kiss him if he did not wear his mask? It was a question she could not answer, although she knew at some point Erik would force the issue. He'd said, yesterday morning, that he would never take it off if only she would try to love him, but she was determined that he would not have to do such a thing in his own home.

She was determined to be different, and she must learn not to flinch at the sight of it, must conquer her disgust.

The meal was delicious, as she was growing to expect from him, but neither of them were inclined to conversation. Christine ate slowly, aware she was trying to prolong the hour of departure but could not speak easily, could not think of anything but the fact she must go, the ordeals that lay before her in the world above.

She had no idea what he was thinking, how he was feeling. He did not eat, sat at the table and watched her, his gaze hungry even if he was not. She felt his eyes on her every move, found it hard to enjoy the food, felt incredibly aware of the slightest movements she made.

At last she finished, and Erik took her plate to the sink, stood there with his back to her. Silent, head lowered, he looked so…hopeless. He looked, Christine thought, like a man who did not expect her to return.

She rose, went to him, stood beside him at the sink and didn't dare reach to touch him.

"I will come back," she whispered. "I know you don't believe me, but I will."

"You won't," he said, didn't move, gripped the edge of the sink and did not look at her. "You'll go back to your life and forget everything you think you feel now." She shook her head slightly, couldn't think what to say. It was not an debate she could win, at least not at the moment. There were no arguments she could bring to bear against him, and no amount of pleading or protesting would do anything to convince him.

There was nothing she could do – except come back to him. Christine swore to herself that she would not allow anything to prevent that.

Six months without him had been bad enough. And she was still afraid of him, of course she was – only a fool would not be afraid of him. But there was so much more to her feelings, it was so much more complicated than simply fear.

She needed to touch him, reached out, covered his hand with hers. He flinched, just a little, and she tried to remember that it was not _her_ that he flinched from – it was not her touch, it was _any_ touch.

Then he turned his hand, entwined his fingers with hers, stroked his thumb across her skin. Barely anything, but so much when it was from him. She held her breath, everything focused on that one point of contact.

Eventually he pulled away, made a gesture with his other hand. "Go and get your things," he directed her. "Then I'll take you up."

Christine could not disobey, checked the cry that wanted to spring from her lips, nodded her head and went to her bedroom. She picked up the ring on its chain, debated for a moment how to keep it safe. She had no pockets in this dress, but she did not want to put it back around her neck – knew the message Erik would read in that. Neither did she want to put it in the bundle of clothing, wanted it within reach so she could give it back to Raoul as soon as possible.

In the end she wrapped the chain several times around her wrist to make a kind of bracelet. The ring dangled awkwardly against her hand, but it was better than her other options, and Christine picked up her clothes, glanced around one last time at the bedroom Erik had made for her.

Although she was determined to return, she was aware that there were things that might prevent it for some days. She wanted to make sure she remembered everything, remembered the care and love Erik had put into creating this room for her.

She blew out the few candles that she'd left burning earlier, closed the bedroom door behind her, went to the music room. Stopped in the doorway and looked at him, standing by the fire, eyes closed and head lowered.

Defeated.

Christine hurried towards him, dropped her bundle on her chair as she passed it, reached out and touched his arm. He jumped – of course he jumped, so easily startled by a simple touch – but he did not pull away from her.

"Are you ready?" he asked, and Christine had to nod in answer. She was ready. She did not want to go, but she was ready. "Good." He did not move, stared down at her, lips pressed firmly together as if to prevent himself from speaking.

Christine hesitated, dropped her hand to her side, looked up at him and tried to find the right words to speak.

"Thank you," she said at last, and he lifted his eyebrow, tilted his head inquiringly. "For – for everything. For bringing me here and making me face up to things."

His lip twitched into a mirthless smile. "I forced you here," he reminded her. "I gave you no choice in the matter. Some would call that an abduction."

Christine shook her head impatiently. "I know," she said. "I know I wasn't willing, I know…all the things you're thinking. But you know things would have been very different if you hadn't. I would never have realised how I…how I feel."

Erik sighed, glanced away from her. "Nothing will be different," he said, a grim prediction that she swore to herself would not come true. "You'll go back to your Vicomte and live the fairy tale life that you have always dreamed."

"Life isn't a story," said Christine softly, "and I'm not a princess in a fairy tale, Erik." But she could not persuade him, had no argument strong enough to convince him, so she went back to the chair and picked up her bundle. "I am ready," she said, and Erik nodded. He put on his cloak and led her to the outside door – the door she had not tried to open since coming here.

He led her out of the house, helped her into the little boat that waited at the lake shore, and took her back up through the dark tunnels and passages into the world above.


	20. Chapter 20

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine hesitated when they reached the mirror, the doorway back into her dressing room, paused and glanced up at Erik and he looked back at her, head tilted to one side slightly as he always did when he was curious about something.<p>

"How do I come back?" she asked, and Erik shook his head then, said nothing. Christine reached for him, grasped at the lapel of his jacket, used it to pull herself closer to him. "Erik," she said softly, "how do I come back?"

He tried to speak, shook his head again and lifted a hand to hers – didn't quite touch, but she could feel the heat of him, could feel his hand so close to hers. As if he didn't dare touch, not now they had left his home, not now he was returning her to the daylight world.

"You could not find your way alone," he murmured, and she nodded agreement, remembered yesterday morning and his sarcasm when he had told her she was free to go – she had said then that she did not know the way, would get lost in the seemingly endless passages that he used to pass between the darkness below and the opera house above.

She had not wanted to stay, but had been unable to go. Now she did not want to leave. So much had changed in such a short time.

"I'll wait for you," he said at last. "On the roof."

There was some significance in that, she knew. The roof, as far as it was possible to get from Erik's home under the earth – as close to the sky as the opera house allowed. The roof where she had fled after the murder of Buquet, where Raoul had proclaimed his love and she had accepted it. The place where she had kissed him and abandoned her Angel, fully consigned him in her mind to the role of monster.

Or rather, not fully. She had given him that role, that title, but had never _quite_ believed it. Had never been able to forget her Angel.

"The roof," she repeated, nodded again. "When?"

Erik touched her hand then, and gentle fingers made her loosen her grasp on his jacket. "In two days," he said gravely. "If…if you are sure, then…meet me on the roof at midnight."

Two days. She let her hand fall, lowered her gaze as she thought of long hours. So much could change in two days – so much had changed already, in that time. She did not think his appointment was arbitrary, suspected he had chosen two days above to match her two days below.

So little of what he did was by chance, coincidental. So much was carefully planned and thought out.

But not, she thought, taking her below to his home. When she'd fallen and hit her head in the graveyard, that had been unplanned. And it had changed everything, as she'd said to him. He might plan his actions and words, but there was always an unpredictable element. _She_ could be unpredictable. She'd proved that when she kissed him.

"Two days at midnight," she repeated. "On the roof. You promise you will be there, Erik?"

His expression softened as he looked at her, and he reached trembling fingers to stroke her hair, her cheek. Christine closed her eyes for a moment as his fingertips brushed over her lips gently, so gentle she could barely feel it.

"Yes," he said tenderly. "I promise, Christine." Then he withdrew his hand, reached to open the mirror. The dressing room beyond was empty, felt bare and strangely unfamiliar as she looked at it. She did not want to step across the threshold – knew she must, but wanted to put the moment off a little longer.

She did not want to leave him, because in his solitude he would forget all she had said, he would be able to deny it to himself and she would not be there to correct him. To remind him that she meant what she said, that she did…love him.

Christine turned back to him, wished she could kiss him again – wished she could be in his arms at least, wished just once to feel his arms around her. To be held in his embrace like…

Like Raoul held her, and she felt a flicker of shame at that. She didn't want to compare the two men – such incomparable men! – but she wanted to know what it felt like to be held by Erik. It would not change her mind, change her feelings, but it would be something to remember, something she could close her eyes and imagine now she was back in the world.

"What is it, Christine?"

"I – I don't want to leave you," she whispered. "I know I have to, but…"

He sighed, shook his head. "You must," he said. "For both our sakes."

Christine licked her lips, saw him watching the movement, his gaze fixed on her mouth. He wanted to kiss her, she thought, but would not dare. Could she dare? But her courage failed her in that because she could not bear the thought that he would run again, when she would not see him for two days.

Suddenly the six months past felt like a lifetime. A lifetime without him, and she could not face that again. Could not let him be ripped from her again, as she had allowed by her actions and her terror and Raoul's soft, comforting words.

She could not dare to kiss him, could not summon the courage for that when last time – just a few hours ago – he had fled from her when she had pressed her mouth to his. But she could dare something else, and she dropped her bundle to the ground, closed the gap between them and pressed herself against his chest. Rested a hand on his shoulder and slid the other around to his back to keep him with her.

He was stiff in her arms, still and silent, and she wondered if he had ever been embraced before. She did not think so, remembered what he'd said about his mother. It made her hold him tighter, rested her cheek against his chest and clutched at his shoulder.

"I will come back to you," she promised in a hushed whisper. "I know you don't believe me, but in two days time I will come to meet you."

He was shaking a little; she thought he was fighting tears, and he lifted a hand, stroked her hair for long moments before he gently forced her from him. He bent to retrieve her bundle of clothing, handed it to her and was careful not to touch her.

"I hope so," he said. "I will wait for you." He stepped back, and she wanted to reach out again but knew it would be futile, recognised the agony in his eyes and knew she must curtail their parting for his sake, if not for her own. This was too painful for him, she saw, far too painful. To let her go without any hope that she would return. She could not imagine his feelings now.

So she nodded, and took a deep breath, and turned to step through the mirror into her dressing room. The mirror closed behind her, and Christine waited for a moment, waited and felt his eyes on her still.

Watching her, but she could not see him when she glanced over her shoulder at the mirror, saw only her own reflection – paused to see how well she looked in the pink dress he had chosen for her, saw for the first time the cut on her forehead. Small, as she'd thought, but vivid against her pale skin.

Then she hardened her heart and left him behind – for now, at least. She would return to him, but she knew well enough to know she would not see him before the appointed hour. She dropped her bundle of clothing onto the dressing table and hurried from the room.

She had barely taken more than a dozen steps down the corridor before she was accosted – by Piangi, perhaps the person she had least expected. The rotund man stopped and stared at her in amazement, exclaimed in his own language, and Christine felt her cheeks flushing.

"But where, then, have you been?" Piangi demanded when his flow of Italian had ceased. "Everyone has been looking for you, signorita." He spread his arms wide, as if to encompass the whole opera house. "The Vicomte, and Madame Giry. We thought you had been – what is the word?" He had been in France many years but his French was not perfect, and he struggled for the word he wanted. Christine waited patiently, knew his meaning before he said it. "Taken – by the Ghost," he said at last. "The Vicomte has been very worried, signorita."

Christine nodded, clutched her hands together behind her back. "I'm sure," she murmured. "I'm quite alright. Do you happen to know where Madame Giry is, Signor?"

Piangi nodded, stepped aside so she could pass him. "Si, she is in the big practice room," he said. "I see her going there with la bambina Giry and the other dancers."

"Thank you, Signor," said Christine, and she went past him, heard his heavy footsteps down the corridor as he hurried away – no doubt to spread the news of her return, and to gossip about it. But that was too mean, she told herself. Piangi was decent enough, although fully in Carlotta's enthral. Whatever he thought of her, he was generally professional in their rehearsals together, unlike his lover.

She went down through the opera house towards the largest of the dancers' practice halls. It felt strange to be here, and yet barely forty-eight hours had passed since she had left to visit her father's grave. She'd promised Meg to return quickly, had persuaded her not to tell Madame Giry that she was going. Meg would not have been able to keep that promise, of course. She wondered now if Raoul had gone to the graveyard, if there had been blood on the ground by her father's grave.

She wondered what he had thought, what Meg had thought. But no, she knew that already – thanks to Piangi, she knew they thought the Ghost had abducted her.

The opera house was dark; it was late, and there had been no performance today. Most people had gone home for the night, but Madame Giry worked the dancers hard, and Christine was not surprised that they were practicing even now. It was one thing she did not miss about her new position – late to bed, early to rise, practices filling all the time there was. She did miss dancing, and her friends, but not the long hours.

She paused outside the room, braced herself for what was to come. Madame Giry had never been known to hold back, and Meg's curiosity would be insatiable. The others would have something to say too – questions she could not answer, and opinions she would rather not hear.

But she could not put it off, so she turned the handle, opened the door and stepped through.

"Christine!" Meg practically screeched, broke off from the barre and came running across the room towards her. The others stopped too, and Madame Giry turned sharply to look at her. "Christine, where on earth have you been? We were so worried – what _happened_, Christine?" Meg demanded. She came to a halt, reached to grasp Christine's hand and pull her further into the room. "Are you alright – your _head_!"

"Marguerite Giry, back to your position at once," said Madame Giry crisply, and Meg made a face but couldn't disobey. Madame Giry so rarely used her full name, and Christine watched as Meg returned to her position at the barre, watched as the other girls became aware of the reprimand and resumed their exercises. Madame Giry came to her, cane thumping loudly on the floor, and Christine lowered her eyes, could not bear to see the censure in her foster-mother's gaze.

But Madame Giry spoke no censuring words. She reached out, grasped Christine's shoulder.

"You are alright?" she asked in a low voice. "What happened to your head, child?"

"I fell," Christine murmured. She couldn't find more words, was aware that the dancers were still watching her covertly. She couldn't speak of it with so many people here, even though they could hardly overhear if she and Madame Giry continued to talk so softly.

She didn't think she could explain everything even had they been alone; some things, perhaps, but not everything. For how could she explain the lonely, desperately hopeful man she had found behind the mask? How could she betray the secrets that she was sure no other living person knew? His name, his face, his past.

These were secrets she could keep, for his sake.

"Go to my room," said Madame Giry then, and Christine glanced up, surprised. Madame Giry's face was blank, unreadable. "I will come to you when I have finished here. Have you sent word to the Vicomte?"

"No," said Christine, and said nothing further. She did not want to speak to Raoul – not tonight, at any rate. It must happen, and soon, and before Erik had returned her she had thought to find Raoul tonight and return his ring. But now she was here, and she felt so weary, so exhausted from the past two days. It was perhaps a coward's way, to put it off until tomorrow, but if that was so, she must be a coward for she could not do it tonight.

"Very well," Madame Giry muttered, and turned back to the girls at the barre. "Meg! Come here." Meg hurried towards them, darting quick glances at her mother and Christine before letting her eyes lower demurely. "Meg, go with Christine to my rooms."

Whether it was as guard or merely companion, Christine could not guess; but she was grateful for the company, grateful that she would not be waiting alone for Madame Giry.

Meg slipped her arm through Christine's, was silent until the door to the practice room was closed behind them.

"Christine," she said then in hushed tones, "have you been with _him_?"


	21. Chapter 21

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine glanced around, fearful without quite knowing why – or perhaps simply cautious, not wanting others to overhear anything they should not.<p>

Not wanting any hint of this to become grist for the gossip mill of the opera house.

"Not here," she said to Meg. "Please, will you wait until we're in your mother's room?" Meg pursed her lips but nodded. They hurried through the opera house together, the familiar path up to the small suite where Madame Giry lived, near to the ballet dormitories and their own small room. The door was unlocked, and they entered, lit the lamps and made sure the door was securely shut behind them.

Then Meg's curiosity could no longer be contained and she dragged Christine to the couch, made her sit down and investigated her forehead with careful fingers.

"What on earth happened?" she demanded. "The Vicomte told us he found blood in the graveyard – did he hurt you, Christine? The Ghost?"

"No," said Christine at once, flinching away from Meg, gentle though her friend was. "No, he wouldn't do that."

Meg was staring at her, withdrew her hand and sat next to her. "Christine," she said slowly, "will you tell me what happened?" She was frowning now, confused, and Christine bit her lip, tried to think of the right words to say. Tried to think of how to explain it to Meg, who had never known Erik as anything but the Ghost. She, like everyone else in the opera house, was afraid of him.

And Christine was afraid still, of course she was – afraid of his temper, of what he could do in his terrible, all-consuming anger – but there was so much more now.

"You must promise me something first," she said at last, reached for Meg's hand and held it tight. "Promise me you won't tell this to anyone else."

Meg looked puzzled, still frowned, but she nodded. "If you want," she said. "You'll tell Mother, though?" Christine nodded; she would not be able to escape that, although she wasn't sure what Madame Giry would have to say about it. Then Meg exclaimed, lifted their joined hands. The ring on its chain wound around Christine's wrist hung down, swaying with the movement. "Your ring – why are you wearing it like that?"

"I have so much to tell you," said Christine slowly. "But I'm not really sure where to begin."

"The beginning," said Meg, so pragmatic, sounding so like her mother that Christine had to smile. "What happened at the graveyard?" Meg asked. "I waited for you, but of course eventually I had to go to sleep, it got so late. Did he follow you there?"

"Yes," said Christine with a nod. "He…he came to speak to me, and I tried to run away." She lifted her free hand, didn't quite touch the healing cut on her forehead. "I fell and hit my head," she went on, "and…he took me to his home."

Meg inhaled sharply, looked at her with wide eyes. "But you didn't want to go, surely," she said. "Weren't you terribly afraid?"

"I was unconscious," Christine murmured. "I woke up in…" She closed her eyes for a moment, shook her head. "I don't remember much of the first time I woke," she said. "But I was in his home, and he was cleaning my cut."

"But weren't you afraid?" Meg asked again, and Christine nodded.

"I was at first," she said. "But…" She trailed off, sighed. "Oh Meg, I don't know if I can explain it all," she said. "I don't fully understand it myself." How to explain the transformation in her feelings? How to explain that she had missed her Angel for six long months, that part of her terror had been bound up with _missing_ him so very badly?

She tried again. "He was very kind," she said, "and acted…very properly, Meg. He has a bedroom for me in his home, such a lovely room. He…he made me nice things to eat, and gave me lessons, and read to me…"

Meg pulled her hand away, almost leaned away from Christine. "You sound," she said slowly, "as if you…like him. But you are terrified of him, Christine – I've heard the way you speak of him."

"I haven't always been afraid of him," said Christine, broaching the subject they had only rarely discussed. Only once or twice, she thought, had they spoken of her Angel. Meg pursed her lips together, nodded once. "But yes, of course I'm afraid of him – I'm still afraid of him, even now." She couldn't help a shiver, closed her eyes and thought of his terrible anger, the rage that seemed to overwhelm him, to sweep away everything but rage and bitterness.

"But there's more to him," she said at last. "And I…I let myself forget all that had gone before. And now I've remembered, and I know who he is, and…and yes, Meg, I do like him." She felt herself flush as Meg looked at her, lifted a hand to hot cheeks. "I think I love him," she admitted in a whisper.

Meg was silent for long moments, her gaze lowered, and Christine waited for her judgement. Waited for the condemnation that would surely follow her confession, even from Meg – even from her best friend, who had been so supportive these last few months. She had never judged Christine before, for any of it, but surely she would judge her now.

"Please," she whispered at last, "please say something."

"I'm not sure what to say," said Meg, slow and cautious. "I…you hardly ever talk about him, you know, and when you do it's always been…" She shrugged a shoulder, still didn't raise her eyes to look at Christine. "You never even talk about when he was your Angel of Music. It's always the Ghost. And you've always been frightened of _him_."

"Yes," said Christine. "I have. And I know…I know I haven't talked about it." She clutched her hands together in her lap, looked down at the chain around her wrist. "I haven't wanted to think about it, for a long time," she admitted in a low voice. "About him. It was…it's been too much, Meg. I've been such a coward. I wouldn't admit even to myself that I missed him."

"You missed him," Meg murmured. "Your teacher. But why, Christine? He killed Buquet – and the chandelier – and the notes! And how can you love him if you're scared of him? It doesn't make any sense."

"I know it doesn't." She tried to find the right words, to explain even a little of how she felt to Meg. To explain a little of what had happened, there in Erik's home. "He didn't mean to hurt me, Meg," she said. "The chandelier – I – he must have been so terribly hurt." She lifted her hand, let the lamplight play on the ring Raoul had given her. "I rejected him, you see. I refused to remember how good he had been to me, as my teacher, and I ran straight to Raoul."

"But you say you love Raoul," said Meg doubtfully, and she reached out, touched the ring with her fingertips. "You've said that to me, Christine. You're engaged to him, after all." But Christine shook her head, fumbled with the chain and took it off her wrist. It was a weight she did not want to bear.

"I'm going to give this back to him," she said. "Tomorrow morning. As soon as possible."

Meg exhaled, a long sigh. "You're making no sense," she declared. "Christine, please, listen to me. You've been with him for two days – it's no wonder you're confused. You need to sleep, and see Raoul, and you'll feel so much better."

"No," said Christine, and she shook her head, reached out to grasp Meg's shoulder. "No, please," she said. "Try to listen. Try to understand. I know it sounds strange, but I…I do love him, Meg. I can't bear the idea of him being hurt."

"But Raoul?"

Christine hesitated, shook her head again. "I love him too," she said softly, "but not…not enough. Not enough to be without E- my Angel."

Meg's eyes were sharp, she frowned when Christine changed her words, understood what Christine was not saying.

"You know his name, then," she deduced. "But Christine – how can you love him if you're scared of him?"

"I don't know, exactly," Christine said. "But…but I do love him. I think of my life with Raoul and it feels so _empty_, Meg." She held the ring tightly in her hand, thought of Raoul's happy expression when he'd given it to her. Thought of the way he kissed her, the way he accepted her smiles and her pleasure as his due. Thought of Erik's reaction to the same small gestures, and her heart ached.

She thought of how he had not known what to do when she had embraced him. Her poor Erik, who would need to be taught love so carefully. So unlike Raoul, who had been showered with affection from his earliest days, took it as something that would always be there.

"You're blushing," Meg said in a murmur. "Christine…what _happened_? What on earth has happened to you?"

"He makes me feel alive," said Christine. "And I think of a life with Raoul and it makes me want to be dead."

Her words almost took her breath away; she had not elucidated it so clearly before, even to herself. But it was the truth. A life with Raoul, as the Vicomtess de Chagny, would be so wholly without music, without performance. Without joy. She could not live like that.

She would almost rather be dead. It was perhaps overly-dramatic but then, Christine thought wryly, she was after all an actress.

"Christine, that's…that's…" Meg stumbled over her words, reached to clasp her hand once more. "Are you _sure_, Christine?" she asked then. "What about the things he's done?"

"I can't excuse any of it," Christine murmured. "I won't. But I can't…" She closed her eyes, thought of the hopelessness with which he had sent her away from him. The agony he must have felt in doing so, when he did not believe she would return. "I can't bear it any longer," she said at last, the words falling from her mouth so quickly she almost stumbled over them. "I can't bear not having him in my life, Meg. When he revealed himself to me all those months ago…oh God, when I think of how he must have felt when I…"

"When you what, Christine?" Meg asked gently. "Tell me what happened. You've never talked about it – you disappeared for a night and came back so…so different."

Christine hesitated, wondered what to say. She'd promised herself not to reveal Erik's secrets, and yet…

And yet she must say something, she knew. Meg must know something, or she would never be able to support Christine – and she needed her friend to understand her decision as much as possible, to support her when she broke her engagement with Raoul.

She needed her friend, and so she closed her eyes and admitted what she had done.

"I took his mask," she whispered. "I saw his face."


	22. Chapter 22

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine kept her eyes closed, couldn't bear to see Meg's reaction, but heard the shocked gasp and felt Meg's fingers tighten on her hand.<p>

"I was stupid," she said, opened her eyes again then. "And foolish. So very foolish. And he was so angry, and I didn't hear from him again until _Il Muto_."

"What – what does he –"

The door opened, interrupting Meg, and the two girls rose automatically as Madame Giry entered and closed the door behind her. She put her cane in a corner, glanced at the two of them.

"Sit down," she instructed. "You look exhausted, Christine." Her voice was sharp but her expression worried, and she came to the couch, stared down at Christine with a frown. "Did he harm you?" she demanded. "Did he – did he do anything –"

"No," said Christine quickly. "No, of course not." There was no 'of course' about it, she knew – anyone could reasonably expect that he might have hurt her. That he might have…

Might have raped her.

She closed her eyes briefly, wondered if the thought had occurred to Raoul, wondered how she could possibly combat him in that. Erik had murdered, after all, and he blackmailed. Surely anyone might expect him to be capable of other things. It was a repugnant thought, given how he reacted to a simple touch, but it was one that she was sure had crossed Raoul's mind as it had clearly done for Madame Giry.

"No," she said again. "No. He wouldn't – no." She lifted her hand to her mouth, as if she could keep her protests unspoken by her action. "He couldn't," she said at last. "It…it just isn't in him, Madame." He could no more force his affections on her than he could accept a simple kiss without fleeing.

"He is a murderer," snapped Madame Giry. "God only knows what else he is capable of. But you're sure you're unharmed? What happened here?" She reached out, stopped short of touching Christine's forehead.

"I tripped in the graveyard," said Christine. "He…he took me to his home." She leaned back, exhausted suddenly. "Madame, I'm quite alright," she said quietly. "I – so much has happened, but I…I would like to go to bed, if you don't mind."

"Christine, you must tell her," said Meg, and Madame Giry glanced at her for a moment before returning her sharp gaze to Christine.

"Well?" she said. "What must you tell me?" She took a seat in the armchair near the couch, looked at Christine and waited for an answer. Christine could no more disobey Madame Giry than she could Erik when either was like this, expecting instant obedience.

"I…Madame, I…" She couldn't manage the words, knew Madame Giry would censure her even if Meg did not. "I can't marry Raoul," she said at last. "I can't do it. And I can't be bait for – for _him_. I…care too much for him to do that."

Madame Giry inhaled, shook her head. "Say what you mean," she insisted. "It's more than that."

Christine looked at her in surprise, for a moment couldn't speak. "Did you know?" she asked at last. "How could you know?"

"I have looked after you since you were ten years old," said Madame Giry, and there was a slight smile hovering about her mouth now, her eyebrow tilted a little show her amusement. "Credit me with some knowledge of you, Christine. So you have realised it, then?" Christine nodded, mute. "Did he – what did he say to you?"

"Many things," Christine murmured, lowered her eyes to her lap, thought of the arguments they had had, the knowledge she had dragged from him so painfully. Thought of the way his eyes had followed her about the room, the way he had carried her to her bed last night. So tender, so loving. So desperate.

"And what do you plan to do?"

"I'm going to give Raoul his ring back," said Christine, raised her head to look at her guardian, almost defiant. "I can't marry him, Madame." She wrapped the chain around her wrist again, avoided Madame Giry's eyes.

And Madame Giry's disapproval was clear. "He is a good man, Christine," she said. "He can give you security. No," she said, lifted a hand when Christine tried to speak. "It is not a bad thing. You're young, you don't think of such things. But he has a position, and money, and he would be able to look after you, Christine. Don't dismiss these things. What can the Ghost give you?"

Her answers, Christine felt, would not please Madame Giry. Yes, Raoul could offer her security – but it would be so stifling, so confining. Erik could give her love, and music, and passion. Things that she was sure Madame Giry would dismiss as idealistic.

"But she can't marry Raoul if she doesn't love him," said Meg, saving her from an answer. "You can't expect her to, Maman."

"Is it a question of that?" Madame Giry asked, her eyes fixed on Christine still. "Do you no longer love him?"

"No," Christine had to admit. "I do care for him, Madame. But…but I…" She wrapped her arms about herself, remembered the feel of Erik close to her. "Not enough," she said at last. "The things you say, they're entirely sensible. And perhaps if I were a different person, I'd make the choice you want me to make." She shook her head, closed her eyes, pictured Erik. Pictured the mask and what lay beneath it, knew what the sensible choice would be.

Madame Giry was right; what could Erik offer her that was any better than what Raoul offered? A home beneath the opera house, persecution if he was discovered…and he would be discovered. If he continued as he always had, she was sure it was only a matter of time. If the plot to capture or kill him at _Don Juan Triumphant_ failed, the managers would no doubt pursue other means to remove him from the opera house.

What could he offer her, except himself?

"But I can't," she said at last, looked at Madame Giry again. "I can't choose Raoul over Erik." Meg jerked slightly at the name, but Madame Giry did not flinch – she had not known the name, Christine judged, but was not surprised that Christine knew it. "I can't," she repeated. "I love him, Madame. I can't be without him. Not again."

"Can't, or won't?" said Madame Giry with a raised eyebrow. Christine shrugged, couldn't answer. Perhaps it was 'won't', perhaps tomorrow she would meet with Raoul and remember all the qualities about him that she loved.

But she didn't think so.

"Does it matter?" she asked. "I've made my choice. I'm going to go back to him. I love him."

"Love," sighed Madame Giry. "Well, we can talk about it tomorrow. You look exhausted, child. To bed, I think – both of you. Meg, make sure the others don't bother Christine tonight, please."

"But – yes, Maman," said Meg, catching her mother's eye. "Come on, Christine." They rose again, and Meg led the way from Madame Giry's rooms, along the corridor and up a flight of stairs to the ballet dormitories.

The other girls were waiting for them, some in the corridor and some crowding into doorways, and they all began talking at once when they saw Christine. Questions flew at her from all sides, but Christine kept her head down, pushed through them to her room, left Meg to tell them she needed to sleep, could not answer any of their demands.

Meg closed the door, shutting out the other girls, and Christine put Raoul's ring on the small dresser they shared, lifted a hand to her head and closed her eyes.

"I won't change my mind," she said to Meg. "I won't do that to him."

"Why?" Meg asked, came to stand next to her. "Because you don't want him hurt? Christine, if you love him, that's one thing – but if you're only doing this to make him happy…"

"Not only," said Christine, glanced at her friend and tried to smile. "I love him. So dearly, Meg. I never knew love could feel like this."

"How does it feel?" asked Meg, and she reached out, touched Raoul's engagement ring with a finger. "You thought this was love, didn't you? Why else did you become engaged to him?"

"I…I'm not really sure." Christine reached up to pull the ribbon from her hair, opened a drawer and took out a nightgown. "I was scared, and he was safe," she said as she began to undress. "And he is kind, and sweet – and Madame is right, he could provide for me. I would never want for anything." She closed her eyes, remembered Erik, remembered the way he touched her. The way he would trail his fingertips across her cheek, or hold her hand. So little, and yet it made her feel…

So alive. Truly alive for perhaps the first time in many years.

She smiled, couldn't help smiling. "It feels wonderful," she said in answer to Meg's question. "He loves me, Meg. He loves me more than anything else in the world. He would do anything just to see me smile."

"He would do anything, he's proved that," Meg muttered, and Christine sighed, went to hang her pretty dress up on the rail between the two beds. "Did he give you that?" Meg asked, and Christine nodded, unhooked her corset and let it fall to the floor. "Christine…you…" Meg sighed, shook her head and began to take off her practice dress. "Sometimes I feel like you're so much younger than me," she said, not quite looking at Christine, and Christine frowned. "And sometimes," Meg continued, "you're so far away from…from reality."

Christine said nothing, could say nothing. She knew she had always been a dreamer, knew she had allowed herself to drift through life for too long. She knew too that many considered her young for her age, although Meg was only older than she by a few months.

"I'm growing up," she said at last. "And…and as an adult, I am making this choice, Meg. Will you try to respect that, even if you can't understand?"

"I don't see that I have any choice," said Meg practically, pulling on her nightgown. Christine put on her own, took her brush and brushed her hair, carefully so she didn't pull at the scab so close to her hairline. "But Christine – you said – you've seen his face? Isn't it as they say? How could you love someone who isn't…isn't…"

"I don't know," said Christine, and she sighed, dropped the brush onto the dresser and went to her bed. So familiar, so comforting, although not as comfortable and fine as the one Erik had prepared for her in his home. Still, it was the bed she had slept in for years, and she _was_ glad to be back here with Meg, even if she could not answer all Meg's many questions.

Even if she wished for nothing more than to be in someone else's bed.

She flushed, ducked her head and hoped Meg wouldn't notice, scrambled into bed and pulled the blankets close around her. Such thoughts had never occurred to her with Raoul, but with Erik they seemed to come so easily.

"I can't talk about it now," she said to Meg, glanced across the room at her friend. "Please, Meg. Tomorrow? I'm so tired."

"Alright," Meg agreed grudgingly. "Tomorrow. But we _will_ talk about it, Christine. I can't respect your choice until I understand a little more. Everything seems to have changed so quickly, you know."

"Yes," Christine murmured. "Yes, I suppose it has."

But she closed her eyes, drifted to sleep quickly, and did not dream.


	23. Chapter 23

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Morning brought Raoul, calling up to her from the foot of the stairs – forbidden by Madame Giry from going up to the dormitories, he could come no closer to her bedroom, and Christine wrapped her dressing gown around herself, went to the top of the stairs and looked down at him.<p>

"I've only just woken," she said to him, acutely aware that many of the girls were watching her, peering out from behind half-closed doors and whispering amongst themselves. "Will you give me time to dress, Raoul?"

"I've been out of my mind with worry," Raoul said, face turned up to her, his eyes wide as he stared up. "Are you alright? What _happened_? Where have you been?"

"Please, Raoul," Christine sighed, "let me dress. I assure you, I'm quite alright."

"I – alright," he said, nodded at last. "Ten minutes?" Christine managed a smile and a nod and hurried back to her bedroom. Meg was dressing, glanced at her as Christine rummaged for clean clothes in the drawer, pulled down a dress from the rail.

"Are you still sure?" she asked, came to hold Christine's corset in place while Christine did up the row of hooks at the front. "About Raoul, I mean."

"Yes," said Christine briefly, wriggled into her petticoat, pulled on her skirt and went to brush her hair before putting on the bodice. "I'm quite, quite sure. I can't marry him."

"Maman was right – is it can't, or is it won't, Christine?"

Christine shook her head, a little impatient, as she put her arms through the sleeves and began to do up the buttons. "Can't and won't," she said. "I won't choose him just because he's a Vicomte and has money, and I can't spend my life with a man who would deny me everything that I am."

Meg nodded slowly, gave Christine a sidelong glance. "It…had occurred to me," she admitted. "You couldn't be a singer as his wife. You'd have to give up the stage. But then you wouldn't have to earn your living."

"I don't do it just for the money," said Christine, and she reached out, grasped Meg's hand. "I love being onstage. You know that. You feel the same, don't you?"

Meg nodded again, a smile tugging at her mouth. "I do," she said. "But you seemed so sure about it, Christine. I didn't want to say anything because you seemed so happy with Raoul."

"I wasn't sure," said Christine, and she finished doing up her buttons, found a ribbon to tie back her hair. "I didn't want to admit it, least of all to myself, but I wasn't sure. There was so much…" She waved a hand, couldn't find the right words. "Anyway, I _am_ sure now," she said at last. "Have you seen my stockings? I must hurry."

Meg produced the stockings and Christine sat on the bed to put them on, slipped her feet into shoes and checked her appearance in the small mirror that hung on a nail next to the door. The cut on her forehead seemed less vivid than it had in her brief glance in her dressing room mirror, last night when she had left Erik behind. Perhaps she was less pale for a good night's sleep, or perhaps it was healing.

Still, she was glad of it. Raoul's concern would no doubt be almost overwhelming, and if the cut was healing, it would help her to assure him no harm had come to her.

No harm; just a change of heart, and she was dreading this meeting, dreading what she must say to him. Yet she had stood in the Phantom's home, had overcome her fear of him to discover the truth. She must be equally as brave now, just as strong.

She could be strong. For Erik, she could be strong.

She picked up the ring, pulled it off the chain and clutched it in her hand. The metal was cool and the small diamond was all hard edges against her palm, but she would not be holding it for long.

"Do you want me with you?" Meg offered then, and Christine smiled at her, shook her head. She would love to have her dear friend's support, but this was something she must do alone.

"Thank you," she said, "but no. It...I don't think this will be pleasant. And you have practice, anyway." Meg made a face, nodded and bent under her bed to retrieve her _pointe_ shoes.

"Yes," she said, "but if you needed me, I'd find a way to convince Maman to let me go." Christine tried to keep smiling, couldn't quite manage it. Her stomach felt tied in knots, the ring was heavy in her hand. "Go on," said Meg softly, understandingly. "The sooner you go, the sooner it will be over."

"You sound like your mother," Christine said, and Meg made a face, collapsed on her bed in peals of laughter, and Christine checked herself in the mirror one last time. Meg's laughter was fortifying, and she left the room, hurried down the passage and to Raoul, still waiting at the foot of the stairs for her.

"At last!" he said, and although he offered her a smile, it could not erase the look of concern on his face. "Christine, why didn't you send someone for me last night?" he asked, reached out and took her hand. "I've been going insane with worry." He reached forward, tried to kiss her, but Christine turned her head so his lips landed on her cheek.

"I'm fine," she said softly. "I was exhausted last night, Raoul, forgive me for waiting until today." She glanced behind her, up the stairs to the dormitory corridor. She could see nobody, but she knew the girls would be there, eager to eavesdrop on a private conversation. "Come to my dressing room," she said, turning back to Raoul. "We can talk there."

"Alright," said Raoul, and he offered his arm; Christine took it, unable to refuse – _unwilling_ to refuse, or to answer his questions before they had privacy.

It was still early enough that the opera house was quiet, and Christine kept her eyes downcast, avoided meeting anyone's gaze, wasn't ashamed to let Raoul ward off any who seemed likely to try to speak to her. They went through the opera house in silence, and Christine thought Raoul was as unwilling as she was to speak where others could hear them.

But of course, she realised as Raoul shut the dressing room door behind her, somebody could hear them in here.

Somebody could stand behind the mirror and listen to every word, see every gesture.

Christine shook that thought away; she did not think Erik would be here. It was so early in the morning, and she thought it was far more likely that he would not be able to watch her, would shut himself away until the appointed hour of her return. And if he _was_ watching, he would see nothing that would not persuade him she was genuine, she would make sure of that.

"Christine," said Raoul softly, "where have you been?"

Christine took her time in answering, turned around and looked at her childhood friend and saw him with fresh eyes. The last time she had seen him, she had believed herself in love with him; had found him a comfort, a safe haven. Now she looked at him and she could still see those qualities that had made her agree to marry him, could still see the handsome face and the caring expression.

But in her mind she pictured Erik, remembered the way he had reacted to simply hearing his name from her lips. Remembered everything he had done for her, how he had cared for her and done his best to please her.

"I fell over in the graveyard," she said at last. "I tripped. Somebody happened to be passing, and he took me to his home to look after me." She lifted her hand to her forehead, didn't quite touch the cut. "I was unconscious for some time, and then I was quite ill with a concussion." The lies fell easily from her lips, but she was depending on every ounce of her acting ability to make him believe it. "I only became well enough to return yesterday evening," she said, and looked straight at him, offered a smile.

"But why did you not send word?" Raoul asked, led her over to the dressing table, gestured for her to sit. Christine glanced at the bundle of clothing still on the table, hoped Raoul wouldn't comment on it. "I've been so worried, Christine."

"I was too ill," she said, stifled a sigh as he knelt beside her, tried to take her hands. He frowned then, found her hand clenched into a fist. But he held her other hand, looked back up at her and waited for her to continue.

"I wasn't coherent," Christine said after a moment. "For some time I was very confused. And by the time I was well enough to think of sending a message, I was well enough to return."

"I thought _he_ had you," Raoul muttered, and his gaze went to her forehead, to the cut near her hairline. "I thought…my God, Christine, I thought he had hurt you."

"He wouldn't do that," said Christine, and regretted it instantly for Raoul's frown deepened, he leaned back a little and glanced her over. "I – Raoul, I must talk to you," she said. "I…" Words failed, and she looked down at her hand in hers, at her clenched fist in her lap.

"What is it?" Raoul asked gently, so gentle, so loving. "Poor Christine, you must have hurt your head terribly badly. You look pale. I'm sorry, I've brought you away before your breakfast, even."

She hated lying to him, hated it so much, but she nodded her head, allowed him to believe the lie. "Yes," she murmured. "Yes, it was…I was quite ill. But I'm alright now, Raoul. Truly. I am sorry to have worried you. The people who took me in didn't know who I was, of course."

"Of course," he said with a nod. "But you were well taken care of?" He smiled, a lopsided grin that came so easily. So unlike Erik's smiles, which were rare and precious. "Give me that much to ease my distress! I was so worried, Christine, I can't tell you the things I thought."

Christine nodded, couldn't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry you were worried," she said. "Truly, I would have eased that if I could." That was truth, at least. She had never wanted Raoul to worry about her, or Meg, or Madame Giry. "But Raoul, we must talk," she said, determined to say it, determined to tell him as quickly as possible, before he said anything else. "Please." He nodded, looked up at her expectantly. Waited for whatever she had to say.

She wondered, briefly, what he thought it would be. Then she opened her fist, held the ring out to him.

Raoul frowned, took the ring and held it between thumb and forefinger. "Your ring," he said, and his confusion was clear. "Christine?"

Christine wanted to close her eyes, to shut out the sight of his face, the expression he would wear in just a few moments. But she kept her eyes open, kept her gaze focused on his eyes, pulled her hand from his.

"I don't understand," said Raoul slowly. "Why are you giving this to me?"

"Because – because I can't marry you." The words came out rushed, almost slurred in her haste to speak them, and Raoul shook his head slightly, frowned up at her. "I can't, Raoul," she said. "I'm – I'm sorry. I'm so sorry to hurt you…but I can't marry you."

"Christine," Raoul murmured, "what are you saying? What – what _happened_ to you?" He tried to give her the ring back, but she shook her head, fought tears. "Christine…we love each other. Two days ago you told me you loved me!"

"I did," she whispered. "But…Raoul, please. Please don't make this harder than it has to be. I do love you, but not…it's not enough, Raoul. There are too many reasons why we shouldn't marry."

"You mean him," said Raoul, spitting the word out, loathing it just as he loathed the man he referred to. "You were with him, weren't you? He is making you say this! Christine, whatever threats he's made, you know we can defeat him together." He clasped her hands, and she couldn't pull away from him, felt trapped by it. "Christine, it's only a few more weeks," he said earnestly. "Then he'll be gone and we can be together."

"No," she said, shook her head again and tried to tug her hands from his. "No, Raoul. I won't be bait for him, and I can't marry you. He isn't threatening me, Raoul. But I don't love you enough to marry you, and I wish – I _wish_ I didn't have to hurt you like this."


	24. Chapter 24

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Raoul pulled away from her, rose and paced away, his back to her and his head lowered.<p>

"I cannot believe you mean this," he muttered. "You're not yourself, Christine – alright, I believe you if you say you weren't with him, but you hit your head. You have…you have a concussion, you don't know what you're saying."

Christine shook her head, closed her eyes for a moment. She'd known this wouldn't go well, had known he would refute her words, but that didn't make it any easier now she had to face his denial.

"I know what I'm saying," she said softly. "I'm so sorry, Raoul. But you must believe me."

Raoul whirled around, stared at her. His distress was clear, and it made her ache. She had never wanted to hurt him – but this would be better, she told herself, better to hurt him now than to allow them both to throw their whole lives away. If they married, it would only mean misery in the end, no matter how much he loved her now.

No matter how she cared for him, because she did still care for him. He was her dear friend and a loving companion. But he was not Erik, and she knew now what that would mean for their future.

"Christine, you're still not well," Raoul said then, shook his head and came back to her side. "I shouldn't have – you need rest. You should go back to your room and –"

"No, Raoul," she said, stood up and stepped away from him. "I'm quite well now. I know what I'm saying. I don't need to rest, I just need you to listen." She waited for a moment, waited for his agreement, and Raoul sighed, nodded his head. "I do care for you, Raoul," she said at last. "You are such a dear friend. But Raoul…marriage ought to be so much more."

"But what has changed, Christine?" he asked, held his hand out towards her in a helpless gesture. "Two days ago you told me…you said you loved me. We've been engaged nearly six months, Christine." She nodded, couldn't refute that. Six months.

But she had not been happy; even he had recognised that. He'd attributed it to the Phantom, supposed she was terrified as she had been that night on the roof, that night the chandelier had crashed…

He'd consoled her that soon they would be free, soon they could marry and the Ghost would no longer be a threat. But Christine knew now that her unhappiness had not been because of Erik's presence – it had been his _absence_ that had caused her to become withdrawn. To pine, for that was what she had been doing. Little by little, every day Erik's absence had worn away at something deep inside her.

Christine had lied to herself for six months; she would not keep lying.

"Nothing's changed, really," she said. "And…and everything. Oh Raoul, I _am_ sorry. But I can't marry you. It – it's nothing to do with him. It's me."

"Christine…" He stepped close to her, grasped her hand and lifted it to his mouth. "Christine, I love you," he said. "Whatever doubts you're having – it's perfectly natural. Everyone has doubts. But we love each other. I _know_ you love me."

"Raoul…" He could not believe her, would not believe her – he wasn't listening to what she was saying, but perhaps she wasn't explaining herself well enough. She tugged her hand from his, fought the urge to scrub away the feel of his lips. He stole caresses that Erik could barely imagine, she thought, and hated herself for comparing the two men.

They did not deserve that. They both deserved better from her.

"Raoul," she said again, "if I become your wife…if I marry you, you think we would be happy. But Raoul, I could not perform if I were your wife." He frowned a little, shook his head.

"No," he had to admit. "But Christine – you wouldn't have to. You would never need to – to be on stage. You'll never want for anything, Christine."

"Want," she murmured. "But that's just it, Raoul. You're working from an assumption that isn't true – that I don't want to be a performer. That I do it because I must."

He could not conceive of any other scenario, she saw now – saw what she had ignored for six months. She recognised how he felt about her profession, and could not conceal her disappointment in his naïve prejudices. He felt that all who went on the stage must do so out of necessity, she thought, rather than from any pleasure or vocation.

"I love singing," she said, wrapped her arms about herself and stepped away from him. "I _love_ it, Raoul. More than anything else." Except Erik – but she could not say that. Indeed, she could hardly separate her feelings for music and performing from her feelings for Erik. They were so tangled together from years of Erik's tutelage, and from the way she knew he felt about music.

"But Christine, I wouldn't dream of stopping you singing."

"But you would stop me performing," she said, "and that would be almost as bad."

They stared at each other, and Christine could not read his expression, could not discern what he was feeling or thinking. Only a few days ago she had supposed that she would always know what he was feeling, had cherished it as something to be valued. Now she did not know, and could do nothing but continue.

"There are other reasons," she said softly, "but that is one."

Raoul said nothing for a while, couldn't look at her, turned and paced for long moments. Christine stood still, hugged herself, waited for his response. There was more she could say – things that could argue her cause, perhaps – but she would wait for him.

"Christine," Raoul said at last, "you say nothing has changed, but there must be something. Some event must have caused this, for you did love me. I know you did." He stopped still, looked at her at last, his expression open and hurting now. "I – I can't deny that as my wife, you could not perform. But surely if you loved me…"

"No," she said, and couldn't stop it hurting him, regretted the anguish that entered his eyes and caused his mouth to tighten. "No, Raoul. I thought so too…but no. It is not a sacrifice I can make." She turned away from him, closed her eyes for a moment. Her head was beginning to ache, a tell-tale pressure behind her eyes. She thought of Erik, of what he had said. The concussion might linger, he'd said, and she must be careful.

"I can't," she whispered. "And if you loved me, you would not ask it of me."

"That isn't fair, Christine."

"No fairer than you asking me to give it up!" she returned, turned to him in time to see his flinch. Her anger subsided, and she sighed. "Raoul, we want such different things," she said. "Perhaps we should have realised long ago. I don't…" She sighed again, shrugged her shoulders. "I don't want to give up my life," she said softly. "And…and I don't think I could fit in with your life. Do you, Raoul? Do you honestly think we would be happy?"

"Yes," said Raoul at once, so adamant, and he stepped close to her again, took her hand and tried to give her back the ring. "Yes, Christine, we would be happy – together!"

"No, Raoul," she said, and refused the ring, pushed his hand away from her once again. "No, we wouldn't be." She wondered now if she could ever explain to him, if he could ever begin to understand. He loved her; there was no doubt about that. He thought they could be happy together, thought there was nothing standing between them – except the Ghost.

Poor Raoul, who thought that once the Ghost was dealt with, Christine would be happy to go away with him, to leave her life behind and become the Vicomtess de Chagny. Perhaps she would have been happy, for a while. But Erik had opened her eyes. By taking her down to his home, making her see him for what he was – both bad and good – he had opened her eyes, and she could not be blind to what she had discovered. She could not harden her heart against what she felt for him.

She tried a different tack, a different argument to try to persuade Raoul that she was serious.

"You know your family does not approve of me," she reminded him. "You've said you don't care about that, but don't you think it would be hard?"

Raoul nodded, still held the ring outstretched between his fingers. "Yes," he had to agree. "It would be hard. But Christine, I would do anything for you. Aren't I showing that? This wretched opera – the plan to stop him – it's all for you."

"No," she whispered, could not agree to that. "No, Raoul, it isn't. You might want to think so…but I have never agreed to it. You _know_ that."

"You're scared," he said, shaking his head. "But it will soon be over, Christine. You'll never have to be afraid of him again. Isn't that a good thing?"

"I will always be afraid of him."

The words hung in the air between them. Raoul watched her, and Christine felt his gaze as a heavy weight, wanted to turn away and hide her face, to hide whatever he could read there. But she remained facing him, found strength from somewhere to keep looking at him.

"I will _always_ be afraid of him," she repeated. "There will never be a day when I'm not. And there will never be a day when I don't think of him, Raoul."

Raoul was silent; he dropped the ring into his palm and closed his fingers over it. Christine waited, almost held her breath as she waited.

"So I was right," he said at last. "This is about him."

Christine lowered her gaze, shook her head. "No," she said, and it was only a small lie but Raoul saw through it, snorted and turned away from her. "At least," Christine went on, "it's not all about him. Most of it is about me."

"Christine…"

"I can't love you as you deserve," she said, and she looked at him again, willed him to see the truth in her words. "I want things that you can't give me, Raoul. And…and I am tired of being fought over." He tried to speak but she held up her hand, shook her head and continued quickly. "You can't deny it, Raoul. I know you love me, but you – you can't bear the idea of losing. I'm not a prize." She stood straight, felt the mirror at her back and wondered if Erik was there, if he too was listening to her words. "No more," she said quietly, with dignity. "We're not meant for each other, Raoul. Perhaps…perhaps if Father had lived, and I hadn't come here…"

"But I love you," said Raoul, and he was almost indignant at the accusations she had levelled at him, but there was something of hopelessness in his voice as well, and Christine hoped he was finally listening to what she was telling him. "Christine, I love you. It's not about winning or losing, it's about us being safe to be together."

Christine hesitated, could see he believed what he was saying. But it made no difference to her feelings, could not make her love him more. She did not love him as his future wife should, did not _desire_ him as she did Erik.

She could not marry him, and although she did love him…she thought now that the love would fade far more quickly and easily than her love for Erik ever could. She thought again of all the doubts and misgivings she had tried not to dwell on for the past few months, thought of the way she had felt two days ago at the graveyard when Erik had appeared to her.

Scared; and yet longing for him.

"No, Raoul," she said at last. "I'm sorry. There is no point us continuing to talk about it. I can't marry you. I won't. And I will be late for rehearsals if I don't hurry."

She pushed past him, opened the door and hurried from the dressing room. It was a coward's way, to flee like that, but Christine knew Raoul. He would need time to think it over, time to come to accept it.

And besides, she told herself, she hadn't lied to him. She'd missed two days of rehearsals; she could not afford to be late now she had returned.

* * *

><p>No chapter tomorrow night as I'm off to a show. Back as normal on Thursday night :)<p> 


	25. Chapter 25

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"I must say, Mademoiselle, your sojourn away from the opera house seems to have done you good," said Monsieur Reyer, peering at Christine over the top of the piano. "You seem more comfortable with that aria than you did."<p>

"Thank you, Monsieur," Christine murmured. She had given Reyer the same story that she'd given Raoul – that she had fallen and injured herself, and had been under the care of strangers until she had recovered from the concussion and been able to return to the opera house. She wasn't sure whether he believed it or not – and she'd seen the way people looked at her, knew what they thought must have happened – but Reyer, at least, had seemed uninterested. He was concerned only with rehearsals, and catching up for the two days she had missed.

"We'll work on the duet tomorrow, I think," said Reyer, more to himself than her, and Christine waited patiently, forced herself to keep concentrating on Reyer and rehearsals. After a moment Reyer nodded, refocused his gaze on her. "Yes, the duet, and then in the afternoon a run through of act one," he said. "You're progressing very well. Well done."

"Thank you," she said again, hesitated a moment and then continued. "I do apologise once again, Monsieur, for missing the past two days of rehearsals…"

But Reyer waved his hand at her, shook his head. "These things happen, Mademoiselle Daaé," he said. "And frankly you're well ahead of the rest of the cast. Anybody else and I might have worried, but you've been working very hard."

Christine nodded; that much was true. She'd worked hard from the moment she'd realised she had no choice but to perform in Erik's opera. Despite the plan, despite her reticence in taking part in the awful plot to capture or kill Erik, she could not give this work any less than her best.

It was Erik's opera, after all.

"The opening is in three weeks," she said. "I should hope that we were all working hard." Reyer's eyes were sharp as he looked at her, and Christine regretted her words, did not want to talk to him about…about the Ghost.

She did not want to talk to _anyone_ about Erik. But she knew she would have to – she knew Meg and Madame Giry would be waiting for her when she went to lunch. She was sure they would be waiting for the explanations she had not given last night.

What explanations could she give? What could she possibly say? Madame Giry seemed intent on persuading her to marry Raoul, and Meg…

Meg had promised to try to understand, but she would still have questions. Christine knew her friend would have unending questions, and she supposed she must try to answer some of them, at least.

So: Meg and Madame Giry she must talk to. But she did not have to speak to Reyer, did not owe _him_ any explanations, at least. So she lifted her chin slightly, looked at him and silently dared him to comment.

He did not, of course; if the director was anything, he was circumspect.

"We'll meet again after lunch," was all he said. "Practice room five, for the market scene, with the corps de ballet."

"Yes, Monsieur," said Christine demurely, and she gathered the loose pages of her score into a pile, tied a string around to keep them together. Reyer left the room ahead of her, and Christine paused for a moment in the empty room, gathered her defences in preparation. She had managed to go from her dressing room to the practice room without talking to anyone, but she wasn't foolish enough to believe she could manage the same now.

And indeed, Meg was waiting for her in the corridor outside, pounced upon her and almost dragged her along.

"Maman wants you," she said. "We're having lunch in her room."

"Slow down," said Christine, tried to laugh as Meg pulled her down the corridor. "I'll drop my music!"

"Oh, fine," said Meg with a huff, but she slowed, released Christine's arm. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just…I've been waiting all morning." She glanced about as they hurried up a staircase, and Christine did the same. A group of younger dancers came past them, and one of the tenors nodded and smiled as he moved out of their way. Meg pressed close to Christine, took her arm again. "Raoul came to speak to Maman," she said in a low voice. "He was very upset."

"Yes," said Christine slowly. "Yes, I imagine he was." Another staircase, and down a passageway, past the row of workrooms occupied by the costume department. "Let's wait until we're upstairs," she said then. "I don't want anyone to hear."

"You know she'll try to change your mind," Meg murmured. "You know what she thinks."

Christine said nothing, held her music close and let Meg lead her up to Madame Giry's rooms. Madame Giry was waiting for them, with trays from the canteen laid out on her desk, and Christine put her music down and took up a bowl of soup.

"Now, Christine," said Madame Giry, when they were all settled. "You will answer my questions this time." Christine nodded, glanced up at her. She had answered last night – or at least, she had tried to. She felt it wasn't her fault if Madame Giry had not liked her answers. Still, Madame Giry had been her guardian for many years, and she could not be disobedient, would not be impertinent. "What happened while you were with him?"

Christine was slow to reply, thought about what to say before she spoke. So much of what had happened would be impossible to explain – and so much she did not _want_ to explain. Thoughts and words that she could never tell anybody, even those closest to her.

"He looked after me," she said at last. "He made me meals, and he sang to me…and we practiced the opera." She stirred her soup with her spoon, tried to decide what more to say. "We talked," she said finally. "About…many things."

"What did he say?" Madame Giry demanded. "What did you talk about, Christine? There must have been – child, two days ago you loved Raoul. Now you claim you love the Ghost. What did he say to you?"

She shut her eyes for a moment, thought of poor, scared Erik. "Many things," she said again. "But he does not think I love him, Madame. So you cannot say he has persuaded me it is so."

"But why not?" Meg asked then, leaning towards her a little, curious. "Haven't you told him?"

Christine managed a small, bitter smile for her friend. "Meg," she said, "if you had been rejected and despised from the moment of your birth, how could you believe anyone could love you?" Meg frowned, pursed her lips and shook her head a little. "And – and there's his face," Christine added, and she glanced at Madame Giry, saw that lady's narrowed eyes. "But Madame, I do love him," she said. "I think I always have, I just…let myself forget that. I was so scared, and so was everyone else. It was easier to love Raoul."

Madame Giry sighed, put her bowl down. "Easier," she muttered. "I suppose so. Well, you've certainly chosen the harder path now, my girl."

Christine nodded. She could not deny it, knew that loving Erik would be hard – perhaps the hardest thing she had ever done or ever would do. Nothing about him was easy, and she could not expect that loving him would become easier with time.

"I know," she whispered. "I know that, Madame."

"You could still change your mind, Christine," she said then. "The Vicomte came to see me this morning. He was quite distressed. He was sure you'd been taken by the Ghost – oh, I confirmed your story, of course. But he is convinced you're under some threat to break off the engagement."

"I tried to convince him," said Christine, looked at Madame Giry in distress. "Madame, I tried to explain things to him, but…but I don't think he really listened."

"He probably didn't want to," said Meg softly. "He does love you, after all." Christine nodded, couldn't look at her friend, couldn't bear to see the judgement she was sure would be on Meg's face.

"I know," she murmured. "And I do care for him. But…but I love Erik." She closed her eyes, pictured him, could almost feel the brush of his fingers across her lips. "When I think of how much time I've wasted," she said, "and how much I've hurt him – I can hardly bear it."

"But the things he's done," Meg said, and Christine nodded, opened her eyes and glanced at her friend. "Christine, he murdered Buquet. How can you love a man who could do that?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "It makes me sick to think of it."

"And his face?" said Madame Giry then. "What of his face?"

Christine could not answer for long moments. She reached forward to put down her soup, had no appetite now, and then she clasped her hands together and examined her own feelings. What of his face? She had seen it, perhaps more than any other living person could claim. But glimpses, and so long ago now.

What of his face? That horrible, distorted face? She remembered the hollowed cheek, the bloated lips. The disfigurement on his forehead – hidden, mostly, by his wig, but she remembered the skin stretched thin and translucent over the bone beneath. And if he wore a wig, that must surely mean he had little or no hair of his own. She wondered, briefly, what further disfigurement was hidden by the wig.

She suppressed a shudder, would not let Madame Giry or Meg see her misgivings. Her doubts.

"I love him," she said. "Not for his face, or his goodness. I know both, and I must accept them. I do accept them." She looked at Meg, at Madame Giry, tried to make them understand. "You're right," she said. "It will be difficult. And if I married Raoul I would be secure, and would be safe. I would never be afraid of Raoul as I am of Erik."

"But?" said Madame Giry softly.

"But I would not be happy," she whispered. "And surely, Madame – surely you want me to be happy?"

"Oh, child, of course I do," said Madame Giry, and she sighed. "But you must be sure. Absolutely sure, with no doubts. I know you have always felt something for him, but two days is not enough to be sure of yourself."

"It's enough to be sure of some things," said Christine. "And Madame – I'm more sure of Erik than I ever have been of Raoul." Doubts had built in her mind over six long, lonely months. That was, after all, why she'd gone to her father's grave – to try to resolve some of those doubts, to be clear about what she wanted and what she must do.

"And there's nothing I can say to persuade you?" Madame Giry asked, and Christine shook her head. There was nothing. She loved Erik; she would return to him. "What do you plan, then? What of this plot to capture him?"

"I'm going to meet him," said Christine, cautiously – would not reveal everything, for although she did not _think_ either woman would reveal her plans to Raoul, she could not be certain, and could not trifle with Erik's safety. "Tomorrow night. After that…I'm not sure. I won't take part in the plot, Madame – but I don't see how to stop it."

"We'll think of something," said Meg in assurance, and Christine smiled at her, more grateful than she could say for Meg's support. "Now finish your soup," Meg went on. "We're due downstairs again soon."

Thusly admonished, Christine retrieved her bowl and finished her meal.


	26. Chapter 26

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>The afternoon's rehearsal was much more difficult. In the morning, Christine had been alone with Reyer, going over the score and her solo arias. The afternoon was spent rehearsing a crowd scene from act one, Don Juan watching Aminta as she walked through a market. Much of the time was spent on the dancing in the scene, and Christine had her own choreography to think about as well – Erik had written the part for her, after all, had included her in some of the dancing in this scene.<p>

But even when rehearsing, she felt eyes upon her. She felt the curious, gossiping stares of the cast as they sat at the edges of the room and watched, or stumbled through their blocking whilst trying to keep her within sight.

She felt them watching her, and hated it. And yet she knew she must endure it, and more besides, once it became known that she had broken her engagement with Raoul.

She was at least a little used to it now; ever since the masquerade, people had been staring, pointing and whispering. Her association with the Ghost was cemented in the minds of those who worked in the opera house.

And at least, she consoled herself, Raoul had not made an appearance. She'd been half expecting him to disrupt rehearsals, to try to speak to her again. She was sure he hadn't left the opera house, sure he _would_ try to find her and talk to her, but at least he didn't interrupt the rehearsal to do so. That would have been cause for even more gossip.

Christine tried to push everything away, tried to focus on the rehearsal – the dancing, the blocking, the words of the song and the wonderful music – but it was hard. It was very hard, and by the time Reyer dismissed them, Christine was tired. She was not used to the dancing anymore, felt the strain of the façade she had constructed to get through the day.

She wanted to go to her bedroom, to curl up in her bed and push the world away; but she could not. Even if she managed to get up to the dormitories without being stopped, she knew her friends would be waiting. She hadn't spoken to any of them since…since before Erik had taken her.

They would have questions; Meg would still have questions. And Christine didn't think she would be able to escape to the dormitories anyway, thought it far more likely that Raoul would find her, or perhaps the managers – or even Carlotta, who had not made an appearance today, not needed for the afternoon's rehearsal.

So many people wanting things from her.

"Christine?"

"Yes," she said, shook herself free of her thoughts, found Meg waiting for her. The practice room was mostly empty, people filtering out slowly, and Christine went to the side of the room, sat to take off her ballet slippers. Meg came with her, flopped down on the floor and stretched out, lifted her arms above her head and yawned.

"Oh, I'm so tired," she complained. "At least there's no practice this evening."

"Yes, that's something," Christine murmured, put her ordinary shoes on and paused, glanced around to see who was still in the room. Only Reyer, by the piano, muttering to himself as he sifted through papers. "Meg, let's go out tonight," she said then, and Meg glanced up at her, her surprise obvious. "Let's go for a walk along the river," Christine went on. "We can find a café to have supper in. Let's just go out."

"Maman won't like it," said Meg practically. "And we're both tired, Christine."

"I haven't been outside in nearly three days, Meg," said Christine, kept her voice low so Reyer couldn't overhear her. "I need to get out. Please."

Meg looked up at her, lips pursed together and eyes narrowed. "Maman won't like it," she repeated, but it was clear she was persuadable, and Christine put her ballet shoes with her score, looked at Meg hopefully. Meg sighed, rolled her eyes, started to smile. "Well, you can tell her," she said, "since you're all grown up now." Christine stuck her tongue out childishly, and Meg returned the expression, broke into peals of laughter that made Reyer glance up at them. Christine laughed too, revelled in it, let all her cares fall away for a few moments and simply enjoyed being with her friend.

"That's fair enough," Christine agreed when at last they ceased laughing. "I'll tell Madame. Let's hurry and change. If we're ready to go, it will be harder for her to say no."

"True," said Meg, grinning up at her, and she stood up, waited for Christine to gather her things together and rise. They nodded a farewell at Monsieur Reyer and hurried from the practice room. "Let's go the back way," Meg suggested as they went down the corridor. "We can avoid most people, that way."

Christine agreed wholeheartedly – the back way was darker, and less frequented than the normal routes up through the opera house, involved going into a small, cramped corridor and up a flight of stairs that might more accurately be described as a ladder. But Raoul did not know it, and she doubted if the managers did either. Certainly Carlotta would never dream of using that way; it was generally used by stage hands or dancers, and was cleaned less often than the main passages.

They hurried up to the dormitories, found some of their friends waiting in their bedroom – little Jammes, and Giselle, the former pirouetting around the room and the latter lounging on Meg's bed.

"Oh, go away, do," said Meg, a trifle rudely. "We're going out this evening."

"Oh, aren't we important?" said Giselle, making a face. "Christine, where on _earth_ have you been? Why wouldn't you talk to anyone last night or this morning?"

"I hit my head," said Christine, feigning light-heartedness. "Somebody was passing the graveyard and looked after me until I was well enough to come back. And I'm sorry, but I've been so busy. I missed two whole days of rehearsal." She went to the dresser, caught up her hairbrush and tried to tidy her hair.

"Oh, but…" Jammes started but then lapsed into silence, and Christine glanced at her, found the younger girl frowning in confusion. "But everyone says the Ghost had you," the young dancer said at last.

"Everyone is wrong," said Meg tartly, and she tried to push Giselle off her bed. "Oh, go away, please. I need to get changed."

"Suit yourself," said Giselle, rolled off the bed and reached for Jammes. "Come on, we're not wanted," she said. "Christine's ever so important now, she doesn't have time for us lowly dancers." She glanced at Christine, her eyes dancing with mischief.

"Oh, don't be so silly," said Christine, laughed as Giselle had intended. "It's just Meg and I want to go out." Giselle shrugged her shoulders elegantly, shepherded Jammes from the room and shut the door. Christine's smile faltered, and she turned to Meg – but Meg was wriggling out of her practice dress, didn't see Christine's expression.

"They all think I was with the Ghost," Christine said after a moment. "No matter how much I say otherwise, nobody will believe me."

"Well, it is the truth," Meg pointed out, pulling on a dress and buttoning it up with deft fingers. "I know you don't want people to know, but honestly, did you expect anything else?"

"No," Christine sighed. "Yes. Oh, I don't know, really." She found gloves and a scarf, her second-best cloak, checked that she had money in her purse. "Are you ready, Meg?" Meg nodded, caught up her outdoor things, put them on as they left the bedroom and hurried down to Madame Giry's room.

Raoul was there, stood on the threshold and speaking rapidly to Madame Giry. Christine hesitated, clutched Meg's arm and wanted to go, wanted to turn and run – but she couldn't. Raoul turned, saw her, gave a smothered exclamation and stepped towards her.

"Christine," he said, "I've been looking all over for you. We need to talk."

Christine glanced over his shoulder, found Madame Giry watching her with an impassive face. She glanced at Meg, found her friend biting her lip. She looked back at Raoul and shook her head.

"No," she said. "There's nothing more to say, Raoul." She flinched back when he reached out, frowned at him. "There's nothing," she said softly. "We are no longer engaged, Raoul. It's over."

He dropped his hand, shook his head. "I can't believe that," he said. "Christine, I _won't_ believe it. He's got to you – he's threatening you, I know he is!"

"Oh, Raoul," she said with a sigh, hoped she was concealing her worry well enough to fool him. Meg pressed close to her side, glanced up at her, and Christine tried to think of the right words. Tried to think of some way to persuade Raoul that the Ghost had nothing to do with this decision.

She must make him believe it; for her sake, and for Erik's.

"Raoul, he has nothing to do with it," she said to him. "I told you that. I don't _want_ to marry you, Raoul." She paused, shook her head again. "You said doubts are normal," she said quietly, "but I've been having doubts for so long, Raoul. You can't give me all the things I need, and…and I'm certain now that I can't be the woman you deserve."

"I love you," said Raoul, and she could see the hopelessness he felt, could see how exhausted he was. Two days of worrying for her, and then she had returned and broken their engagement. Christine felt sorry for him, sorry for her own actions – but her compassion had its limits. "Christine, surely, whatever doubts you have – whatever you think – surely if we just talked about it –"

"No," she said, cut him off and lifted a hand to pull her hood over her head. "No, Raoul. There's no good talking about it. It will only hurt you more." She looked at Madame Giry again, over Raoul's shoulder. "Madame, Meg and I would like to go out for a walk, and for supper. May we?"

"If you wish," said Madame Giry, a little diffidently. Meg started to speak but checked herself, glanced up at Christine with wide eyes. "Do you have money? Make sure you stay warm, both of you. And don't be back late."

"Yes, Maman," said Meg, and she tugged at Christine's arm, glanced from her to Raoul. "Come on, Christine," she said. "Let's go."

"Christine," said Raoul again, "please."

"No, Raoul," she said. "No." And she let Meg pulled her down the corridor, around the corner, away from Raoul.


	27. Chapter 27

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"He's going to keep trying to talk to you, you know," said Meg, glancing sidelong at Christine as they walked by the river. "Raoul. He won't give up."<p>

"I know," said Christine with a sigh. "And I know I'll have to talk to him." She lifted her face into the breeze, enjoyed the feel of it, inhaled the fresh air. "But there's really nothing more to say," she added. "I've told him…well, as much of the truth as I can."

"Yes, but he doesn't believe you," Meg pointed out. "That's obvious. He knows the Ghost is involved somehow, Christine." They came to a bench, sat down together facing out towards the river. To their left, the cathedral loomed large, black against the darkening sky. People hurried past, intent on their own business – returning home after work, or strolling arm in arm. A harried mother ushered three children along, and Christine watched them, wondered how she had ever taken for granted this simple pleasure. Sitting on a bench by the river, watching people go past.

She would not give up the two days she had spent with Erik, not for anything. Not even the bad parts, the times she had been terrified or crying or in pain. She would not give it up, but she found herself relieved to be in the open air now.

Away from the opera house; away from all the complications that lay there.

"What are you going to do?" Meg asked her then. "About Raoul, I mean."

Christine sighed again, shook her head. "I don't know," she had to admit. "I think I'd hoped he would just…accept what I said."

Meg rolled her eyes, huffed a laugh. "Honestly, Christine," she said, "did you truly think that? But Raoul loves you."

"Or he thinks he does," said Christine, shrugging her shoulders. "Which I suppose is much the same thing." She lifted her head, looked up at the sky. Past the glow of the streetlights, she could see stars emerging, and the moon full and shining far above. She would rarely see the stars, she knew, if she went to live with Erik.

Live with him? Christine shook her head, realised anew that there was still so much that would have to be settled once Erik believed her, once he accepted that she had made her choice. She did not think Madame Giry would allow her to live with Erik, if that is what he wanted, and Christine did not want to go against the woman who had looked after her for so many years.

Live with Erik. There would be problems with that, and yet wasn't that what she wanted? Last night when she'd gone to bed – hadn't she wanted to be with him still? To share her life with him, to be with him always?

"Christine," said Meg softly, "will you tell me what he looks like?"

Christine hesitated, bit her lip for a moment, looked at Meg and saw her curiosity. Slowly she shook her head, reached out to take Meg's hand and tried to explain.

"I can't," she said. "I don't think I could explain it, and…and anyway, he's so…it's not my secret to tell, Meg. Do you see? I've betrayed him so badly already, I can't do it any longer. And he would consider it a betrayal."

Meg frowned, couldn't understand, and Christine knew she couldn't _expect_ her to understand.

"But is it – all the stories," Meg tried again. "Christine, you know what the stories say."

Christine closed her eyes briefly, nodded her head. Yes, she knew what they said. The stories whispered in the opera house, the rumours fuelled, or so she supposed, by glimpses of Erik as he moved about. They spoke of skin yellowed and toughened like parchment, of a black hole in place of a nose, of eyes that glowed. They spoke of his mask too, of course – in some versions, it covered his face. Some people more accurately told of a half-mask, covering the demonic visage beneath.

The man with the face of a demon and the voice of an angel.

"The stories aren't…they're not right," she said at last. "I mean, of course…" She struggled, torn between the need to share things with her friend and the necessity of keeping Erik's secrets. "He wears a mask," she said, clutched Meg's hand tight in her own. "And it's…underneath…" She couldn't speak the words, shook her head mutely, couldn't quite suppress a shiver.

"How can you love someone with a face like that?" Meg asked softly. "Think about it, Christine. Really think. You'd be waking up every day to look at that face."

Christine pulled her hand away, turned a wounded look on her friend. "Meg, don't," she reproached. "I don't know how or why – I don't know the answer to that. But I do love him. And his face…am I so shallow? Is that all I can see?" She stood up, crossed to the stone balustrade that lined the footpath and leaned out, looked down at the river. "I _won't_ be that shallow," she said as Meg joined her. "Meg, he told me…" She hesitated, but she must tell Meg something, must explain something of what she felt and thought about Erik now.

Meg waited, silent.

"His own mother didn't love him," Christine said at last, hushed, as if any of the people passing could hear or would care. "He told me…Meg, you must promise not to say this to anyone else – not even your mother."

"I promise," said Meg at once. "Of course I won't, Christine."

Christine hesitated for a moment longer, then she nodded, turned to face Meg. "He told me the first thing his mother gave him was a mask," she whispered. "Meg, how can I think of his face? How can I let it alter what I feel? He deserves better. He deserves so much better than the life he's been forced to lead."

Meg drew a little closer, glanced around much as Christine had only moments before. "But Christine," she said, "do you _love_ him? Can you think of waking up beside him every day and looking at his face? Are you sure it's not just…pity?"

Christine turned back to the water, gazed across the river and thought carefully. There was some part of her that _did_ pity Erik, she knew – but where did pity turn into compassion? For surely compassion was the better word, surely so much of what she felt was about showing him that the life he had led was not the life he would always have to lead. That he was no longer alone.

She did as Meg asked, thought of a life with Erik. Thought of waking up every day to look at his face. She had resolved, yesterday evening before Erik had brought her back up to the world, that she would conquer herself, would not flinch when next she saw his face. She had resolved that she would not ask him to conceal himself in his own home, that she would accept his face as part of him. Could she do it? Could she truly look upon his face and not find it ugly?

She thought of _waking_ _up_ with Erik, of being in a bed with him, and despite the cold breeze, the bite in the air that spoke of frost and snow, she felt her cheeks warm.

"You're blushing!" said Meg. "Christine Daaé! Well, I suppose that answers my question!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Christine muttered, but not for nothing was Meg her closest friend, and Christine's flush deepened as Meg leaned against the stone balustrade and laughed. "Oh, hush," she said, and couldn't help a smile. "But don't you see, Meg? That's another reason. I – I feel nothing of the kind for Raoul. I never have. But with Erik…"

"Erik," Meg repeated softly. "It's so strange to think of him having a name. But of course he must have one."

They were silent then, watched the water flow past, listened to the sounds of the city all around them. Christine wondered what Erik was doing now. Whether he was hidden away in his home beneath the earth, playing music or composing, whether he missed her. Perhaps he was in the opera house, watching over his domain. Perhaps he had gone into her bedroom to remember that she had been there, that it had not been a dream.

Perhaps…

Christine shook her head, pushed away her curiosity and her longings, turned to Meg and tried to smile.

"We should eat," she said. "Let's go and find somewhere – we mustn't be late back. And it's too cold to keep standing here."

"Alright," said Meg, agreeable to the suggestion, and she linked her arm through Christine's as they began walking again, away from the river towards a café they often frequented. "Christine, what are you going to do? About Raoul, and…and Erik?"

"I'm not sure," sighed Christine. "I know Raoul won't just give up and leave me alone. It's not in his character." Meg nodded, and Christine thought about it, thought about how she could possibly persuade Raoul that she was serious. That she could not and would not marry him. She rather thought that only time would prove her seriousness to him.

And Erik – what of Erik?

"I told you we're meeting tomorrow night," she said, and Meg nodded again.

"Yes – and I won't ask where or when," she said. "I don't want to know. If I don't know, I can't say anything."

Christine sighed. "I'm sorry, Meg," she said, and she meant it. Sorry that she had to ask Meg to keep her secrets, sorry that her choices meant difficulties for her friend. She knew Meg was right to remain ignorant – knew Raoul would probably try to talk to her, to find out from her what Christine was doing.

She knew Raoul would try to discover what the Phantom had to do with the breaking of their engagement, and she prayed that she could be clever enough to keep Erik safe. If Raoul discovered him – discovered her love for him – no, she must not think about that. She must not allow herself to think of it, to dwell on what-ifs and maybes.

There would be plenty of time for worrying once Erik had accepted her choice. Until then, everything must be speculation, and it was pointless to worry.

"Don't worry," said Meg, oblivious to Christine's thoughts. "I don't mind, Christine – as long as you're sure you'll be happy, I truly don't mind."

"Oh Meg," said Christine, and she smiled, paused in the street and turned to her friend. "Meg, I will be happy. I know it. I haven't been happy for such a long time, but I know he'll make me happy." Meg smiled too, wide and contented, and Christine reached out for her hands, clutched them tightly. "And I'm going to make him happy," she said, a promise to herself that she wanted Meg to witness. Wanted it to be made real and concrete. "I don't think he's ever been happy, Meg – but I want to make him happy."

Meg nodded solemnly, seemed to understand something of the gravity of the moment – but then she smiled, tugged her hands from Christine's.

"Fine," she said. "I can't imagine how you can love him, but it's clear you do. But I can't think he'd be happy if you keep standing here in the cold."

Christine laughed, nodded and linked her arm through Meg's again. "Yes, alright," she said. "We're nearly there, anyway – I hope it isn't busy."

"So do I," said Meg fervently. "I'm _hungry_."


	28. Chapter 28

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"I won't be a moment," Christine promised as she led Meg up through the opera house to her dressing room. "But the clothes will have to go to the laundry, and I don't want to leave them there."<p>

"I don't mind," said Meg with a carefree laugh. "You know we're in for a lecture when we go upstairs anyway – Maman will say we've been out too long." She paused at the top of a flight of stairs, glanced back at Christine. "Do you feel better?" she wanted to know. "You looked so exhausted, earlier."

"I do," said Christine, smiling. "Thank you, Meg." It had done her more good than she'd hoped, going out and spending some time away from the opera house. Her life was here, of course – and she'd meant what she'd said to Raoul, that she loved singing and performing, loved the life she had here. But sometimes it was necessary to go out, to leave it behind and forget for a time that she was Christine Daaé, forget the entanglements that she had been caught up in.

And two days below the earth had made her long for the sky and the air. It was one of the things that she knew she must talk about with Erik – she could not stay shut up in the opera house and below it for the rest of her days, and he could not expect it of her.

But not tonight; tonight she needed to gather her bundle of clothing from her dressing room, and then go back to the dormitories with Meg, who was no doubt right about the lecture that awaited them there.

Madame Giry, who'd been so odd when she'd agreed to them going, who was so determined that Christine was making the wrong choice. Christine grimaced, shook her head slightly. As with Raoul, she suspected only time would help to change Madame Giry's mind.

"Here we are," sang out Meg gaily, flinging open the dressing room door. "Where is – oh!"

"What is it?" Christine pressed close to Meg, looked over her shoulder into the small room. "Oh," she said, and sighed. Raoul was waiting for her, sitting at the table and looking rather the worse for wear. His clothing was wrinkled, his face haggard, and his hair was rumbled, as if he'd been running his hands through it.

Meg glanced between them, then shook her head. "I'll wait outside," she said. "Don't be long, Christine." Christine nodded, watched Meg leave and shut the door behind her. Then she turned to Raoul, clasped her hands together and looked at him.

She felt a little sorry for him – no, more than a little. She had injured him so badly today, but she knew the hurt now was better than it would have been if they had continued on their path and married. Eventually he would have been hurt so much more than he was hurting now.

"I just don't understand," said Raoul despairingly, and he rose, stepped towards her. "Christine, why are you doing this? What has happened to make you say these things?"

"Raoul…" Christine sighed, shook her head. "Raoul, can you try to understand that nothing has happened? These are things I've been thinking and feeling for some time now. I just didn't realise it."

It wasn't _quite_ the truth; if Erik had not come to her in the graveyard, she did not think she would have realised it at all. She would have continued in her blind terror, would have clung to the safety of her childhood friend. She would have continued to ignore the doubts that had lurked in the corners of her mind. And she would have played her part in the plot to find Erik, would have done so perhaps not willingly but because she lacked other choices. Then she and Raoul would have gone away and married.

But they would not have been happy and Christine could not regret what had happened or the choices she was making now. The choices she _could_ make, now that she knew Erik, knew what he was and what she felt for him.

"But you've seemed – well, not happy, exactly," said Raoul, grimaced a little. "But at least, I thought you were happy with me. I thought you were just…scared."

"I am scared," said Christine honestly. "But Raoul, there's so much more than that." She stepped towards him, reached out and took his hand. "Think, Raoul," she entreated. "Think seriously. Think about being married to me." Raoul tried to speak but she shook her head, clutched his hand tight in hers. "No, listen," she said. "You would be married to a woman who had left half her heart behind somewhere. On the stage. You'd be married to someone who comes from a completely different class – and you've seen how it's been, Raoul. Your family does not approve of me, and I don't know how to act in your world."

"But you'd learn, Christine," said Raoul, a trifle half-heartedly. "I know it wouldn't be easy. Of course I know that. But surely, if we loved each other…"

Christine tried to smile, couldn't quite manage it. "Yes, Raoul," she said. "If we loved each other. But we don't."

He was silent, and Christine hoped fervently that he was at last beginning to listen. Understanding so soon would be, she knew, too much to ask – but if he was listening, there was a chance that he would eventually understand. That he might think about what she was saying, might come to the same conclusions she had.

"You are such a dear friend, Raoul," she said at last. "But I want more than friendship from my life."

"Many marriages are based on friendship, Christine," said Raoul, and he lifted his hand to her mouth, kissed her knuckles. "Lots of marriages don't even have that. My parents – they loathed each other."

Christine took a breath, hesitated for a moment and then pulled her hand from his. "Perhaps that is what happens for people in your world," she said, "but not in mine."

"But Christine –"

"No, Raoul!" Christine said. "No." She paused, tried to think of how to explain it. Tried to think of the right words to frame what she wanted to say. "Raoul…you remember my red scarf," she said at last, and Raoul nodded.

"Of course – but Christine, what does that have to do with anything?" he asked, and Christine gave him a sad smile.

"It was my mother's," she reminded him. "It's the only thing I have left of her." Raoul was silent, watched her with a kind of wariness, as if he wasn't sure of her meaning. Christine clasped her hands together, looked at him and tried to explain. "Raoul, my parents loved one another," she said. "So very dearly. It was so much more than friendship. And I want that in my life. I want to love someone with every fibre of my being, and to know that I am loved in the same way."

"But I do love you that way," Raoul declared, adamant. "Haven't I proved that to you, Christine? You must let me – please, Christine, I love you!"

"But you don't," she said, and he stepped back from her, stunned. "Raoul, I'm sorry – but you don't. Or at least, you don't make me feel the way…and I don't love you that way. You're my very dear friend, and I owe you so much – but I can't marry you. I won't."

"Christine," he said helplessly, "I can't give up on us. I know we could be happy together."

Christine could say nothing. He might be convinced of it, but she was just as convinced, was absolutely certain that if they married, they would end up hating each other. They would end up bitter and miserable, and she did not want that for either of them.

"You'll find someone," she said at last. "Some nice girl…somebody your family likes, and approves of. Somebody who doesn't belong to some- something else." She almost slipped; almost said 'somebody else', but Raoul didn't seem to notice. He tried to speak, to object, but Christine stepped close to him, lifted a hand to cup his cheek. "You will," she said earnestly. "You'll find somebody who can love you whole-heartedly. I can't do that, Raoul."

"Because of him," muttered Raoul, and he couldn't meet her eyes. "You try to deny it, but I know the truth, Christine. He has some hold over you, and you won't even try to fight it."

Christine sighed, turned away from him, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. For a moment she thought she was looking at a stranger; for a moment she did not recognise herself.

She had grown up, she realised. So quickly, in such a short time, but it had happened. She had changed. She had left behind the child she had been, and must leave Raoul behind as well.

He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and swung her around to face him again. His mouth descended upon hers before she could twist away from him, a kiss that she did not want and did not enjoy. She stood still, unresponsive, closed her eyes and waited for him to realise that she was not kissing him back.

Hoped with all her heart that Erik was not watching, that he was nowhere near this place. He would not see that she did not respond, would not see how she spurned Raoul's kiss. He would only see the action, Raoul's action, and would assume the worst because he could not believe otherwise.

He would believe she wanted this, when the truth was she felt Raoul's lips on hers and felt…_nothing_.

Raoul withdrew; Christine opened her eyes and looked up at him.

"No," she said softly. "No, Raoul." She stepped back, shook her head. "Please don't do that again."

"Christine," he said, and it was clear his heart was breaking, clear from the look on his face and the way his voice cracked a little. "Christine, I love you."

"I'm sorry," she said. She glanced at the dressing table, but if she collected the clothing now it would only cause more questions. She had no wish to prolong the conversation, no wish to stay any longer. Meg was waiting outside, and Madame Giry would be expecting them. "I know it's more than I can ask," she said, "for you to understand at once. But please think about what I've said, Raoul."

"Please," Raoul whispered. "Please don't do this."

"I'm sorry," she said again, and she turned and opened the dressing room door. Meg was waiting for her, leaning against the opposite wall – trying to look, Christine thought, as though she hadn't heard some of what had been spoken. "Let's go, Meg," she said, and Meg said nothing, nodded. Christine paused, glanced over her shoulder at Raoul, saw him standing in the centre of her dressing room looking forlorn, dejected. As though she had crushed him utterly and completely.

She wanted to say something, wanted to offer him some comfort. He was still her friend, or at least she considered him so. She did care for him, at least enough to not want him to be hurt.

But she knew that nothing she could say would help; indeed it would probably only make things worse.

She reached out blindly for Meg's hand, needed her friend's comfort and support, and when Meg clasped her hand, she dragged her eyes away from Raoul and started down the corridor.

Meg did not speak until they were some distance away from the dressing room, but when she did it was in soft, sympathetic tones.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "Are you alright, Christine?"

"No," said Christine truthfully. "I – I never wanted to hurt him, Meg."

"I know," said Meg. "I know that. Why, Christine, you're crying." She pulled Christine to a halt, turned and lifted her hand to wipe tears from Christine's cheeks.

"I never wanted to hurt him," Christine said again, felt so wretched, so exhausted by it all. "But I couldn't do it, Meg. You understand I couldn't marry him?"

"I'm trying to," said Meg, offered a smile, and she cupped Christine's cheeks in her hands. "Don't cry, Christine," she said. "You love…Erik. And he loves you. I can't quite imagine how, but you'll be happy with him. And it's better to hurt Raoul now than later, after all."

Christine nodded, smiled through her tears. Dear Meg was trying so hard to understand, was so clearly determined to support her in her decisions. She did not deserve such a friend, surely she did not deserve such loyalty.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, much better." She leaned forwards and kissed Meg's cheek. "Oh, Meg," she said, "whatever would I do without you?" Meg smiled, shrugged her shoulders and took Christine's hand again.

"You're my friend," she said simply. "Now come on, Maman is going to be furious enough as it is."


	29. Chapter 29

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine slept well and deeply, and woke up with a hum of anticipation running through her veins. She lay in bed, kept her eyes closed and smiled to herself.<p>

Tonight.

There were many hours yet to get through – it could not be quite six o'clock yet, for Meg was still asleep and there were no noises coming from the surrounding rooms. More than eighteen hours, then, a long day of rehearsals and pretence. Perhaps Raoul would come back, perhaps he would try to talk to her again. Perhaps she would see Carlotta today and be subject to the diva's petty remarks.

Perhaps.

But eighteen hours, or a very little longer. Then she would go up to the roof, would go to find him. And he would be there; she was sure he would be there.

He might not believe she would return to him, but he would not be able to resist the hope. Of that she was certain.

And what then? There was so much still unknown, so much she was unsure about. What would he expect of her? What would she want from him in turn? She could not bear the idea of not being with him now, but she could not conceive of living with him unwed. She was not Carlotta, whose reputation was such that nobody cared if she was not wed to her lover Piangi. She was Christine Daaé, and her reputation was not solid enough for that.

She was Christine Daaé, and she could not disappoint the memory of her father in that way. No, she could not go down to live with Erik unless…

But how could she expect that from him? From Erik, who hid from the world and had declared to her that he did not believe in God? He would not stand in a church and repeat vows, she was sure.

She could not possibly ask it of him, must not think of it. What was it he had said? That God had done nothing but curse him. She supposed she could understand why he might feel that way – or at least, she could try to understand it. Could try to comprehend the kind of life that had made him turn so utterly from any kind of faith.

The hurts he had known, the hatred that had been given to him in place of kindness.

And yet she could not live with him unless they were married. She knew herself well enough to know that.

What would happen? She loved him – did not want to be without him – but even for him, she did not think she could compromise her ideals, her integrity.

She sighed, reminded herself that she really had no idea what Erik thought, what he would want. She could not, would not try to make any decisions without him. She must wait, and talk to him, and together they must decide.

Together. Christine stifled a giggle, pressed her face into her pillow to keep silent. How wonderful it felt to think of it, of being together. How strange when she was still so afraid of him, when she shivered to think of his anger. And yet when she thought of his hands…his mouth…

Strange. That was the only word for it, she decided. Two days ago she had woken in his home, in the bed he had provided for her, and had been terrified. And yet even through her terror there had been a longing. Even when she had hated him for taking her freedom from her, she had cared for him. She hadn't wanted to hurt him, had been pained to see his tears.

So many feelings, such conflict. Such a complicated man.

But she loved him; oh, how she loved him. It was not simple, could never be simple, but she thought that perhaps life was like that. She thought perhaps that was what growing up involved, a realisation that only a child could see the world as simple. The world was complex, contained so much of both good and evil, and Christine was no longer a child. She could not continue to blind herself to the shades of grey in the world.

In Erik.

Those hands, the hands she wanted to touch her – in ways that made her blush, even in her current solitude – those hands had killed. Erik had placed a noose around Buquet's neck and sent him dangling to his death. How could she resolve that? How could she want a man who had done something like that?

She'd told Madame Giry that it made her sick to think of that action, and it did. But that did not stop her wanting the perpetrator, did not stop her _wanting_ him so very much.

He was Erik; he was her Angel. He had been her friend and teacher for so long, made his desire for her so plain. He was, she knew now, everything that Raoul could never be for her. For six months she had unconsciously measured Raoul against Erik and found him wanting. She cared for Raoul, but Raoul could never be what Erik was.

Hers, so utterly and completely. And she in turn would be his, wholeheartedly.

She would never have been able to give Raoul her whole heart.

The clock in the hallway chimed the hour, and in the other bed Meg yawned. Christine rolled over, watched as Meg crawled into consciousness, stretched her arms above her head and then yelped at the cold.

"Good morning," Christine said, and laughed at what she could see of Meg's expression in the gloomy pre-dawn light. Meg hated mornings, often had to be dragged out of bed, and now she pulled her blanket over her head and mumbled something inaudible. Christine laughed again, sat up, shivered a little at the cold now she was no longer cocooned in blankets. The dormitory rooms were unheated, but usually the general warmth of the opera house kept the bedrooms reasonably warm.

It must be particularly cold today, she thought, wondered if it had snowed overnight. It had certainly seemed cold enough for it yesterday, but the sky had been clear last night on their walk.

She shivered again, made a face and hurried from the bed. To the dresser first, to light a candle, and then to the washstand in the corner of the room. She poured icy water into the bowl, and Christine's teeth chattered as she washed – more a lick and a promise, given the cold. She scrambled towards the dresser and found clean clothes, changed as quickly as she could.

She wore the pink dress again; Erik's pink dress. Hours yet until she saw him, but perhaps he would be watching during the day, perhaps he would see. It was silly, she knew, but it was something to hold on to, during the long hours that lay ahead.

At any rate, she told herself, it was serviceable enough to wear to rehearsals, and there would be no dancing today. She rather thought the whole day would be devoted to that duet – or not, she remembered, because Reyer had said they would go through act one in the afternoon. Her character appeared in only the final two scenes , so she would have to wait in the rehearsal room and watch the others.

She wasn't sure whether she was pleased that her day would be so busy. It would keep her occupied, and in the morning at least she would have little time to think of Erik. That might be a good thing – and certainly it would keep Raoul from speaking to her, or at least she hoped it would.

Christine grimaced, sat on her bed to brush her hair. Raoul. She hoped that he had understood, last night, that she was serious. But Meg was right – she couldn't expect Raoul to understand quickly, to simply step aside without trying to persuade her to change her mind. To stay with him.

There was no chance that he could, nothing he could say that would make her believe she could be happy with him – nothing to turn her from Erik. But Raoul would not know that, and she was determined to keep him in ignorance about Erik, about her love for him. Raoul was suspicious enough already, had such loathing for Erik. He would perceive it, she was sure, as losing her to his rival.

The truth, of course, was far more complicated than that. But Raoul saw things quite simply, and Christine would not allow him to know that she loved Erik, would keep that knowledge from him as much as she possibly could. She did not love him enough to marry him, but she had no wish to injure him further.

The clock in the hall chimed once, marking quarter past six, and Christine threw her hairbrush at the lump of bedding that Meg was huddling under.

"Up," she said, and laughed at the groan that Meg emitted. "You'll be late for breakfast," she said. "It's not so bad once you're up."

"Why," mumbled Meg, poking her head out from the blanket, "do you have to be so _cheerful_ in the mornings? It's just not natural."

Christine laughed again, reached under her bed for her shoes and winced at how cold they were when she put them on. "Natural or not," she said, "you've got to get up. It's not going to get any warmer, you know."

Meg grumbled and muttered, but flung her blankets back, lay for a moment shivering, and then rolled out of bed. She threw the hairbrush back and Christine caught it, went to put it back on top of the dresser.

"Oh it's so cold," Meg moaned. "Do you think it snowed? Ugh, you're alright, wearing that dress. I've got to wear my tutu."

"Stop complaining," said Christine with a smile. "You know you'll warm up once you're dancing." She tied her hair back, checked her appearance in the mirror. "Do you want me to wait for you?" she asked Meg.

"No, no," said Meg, shivering as she washed. "Go on, I won't be long."

"I'll try to get the table closest to the fire," promised Christine, picking up her thick libretto. Meg nodded, and Christine waited a moment – waited for Meg to pull on her skirt and bodice – before opening the door and slipping out into the corridor.

Other doors were open; some of the dancers were already dressed and prepared for the day, were heading down to the canteen as Christine was, and they greeted her cheerfully. None of them asked her questions, although she was sure they still had them – although Meg would have told them the story she had concocted, and perhaps she had also tried to deter them from questioning her.

Whatever the reason, nobody stopped her with questions, nobody made sly comments. Nobody objected when she joined them on their way down through the opera house. Little Jammes even slipped her arm through Christine's and began to chatter about something that had happened while Christine was away.

The day had begun; and it would end when she was reunited with Erik. Joy and hope filled her heart, and Christine couldn't help smiling as she followed the other girls to breakfast. Couldn't help counting the hours once again until she would see him again.

Her Erik.


	30. Chapter 30

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Once again, if you please," said Reyer wearily, and Christine inhaled, tried to remain as patient as the director seemed to be. They had been working on the duet for nearly two hours, and still Piangi was making the same mistakes in the same passages.<p>

He was trying; that much was clear. Piangi was putting effort into it, had spent the first half an hour of rehearsal going over the melody with Reyer while Christine studied the score and waited for him to feel ready. He had mastered some of it, but certain passages caused him continued difficulty.

Christine had to wonder why Erik had cast Piangi as Don Juan. Piangi had a good voice, but he was not a good actor, and he struggled with some of the language in his part. He was not suited to the role – there were several other tenors in the cast who would have jumped at the chance to play a leading role, and certainly Christine would have found it easier to act desire towards any of them. Younger, fitter than Piangi, any one of them would have been a better match physically for such a character as Don Juan.

Still, Erik's instructions had been clear: Piangi was to be Don Juan. Christine could only hope he would overcome his difficulties before opening night.

Her cue arrived; Christine sang as Erik had taught her, moved as Reyer and Madame Giry had directed. And this time, when it was Piangi's turn again, he sang all the notes and in the correct order.

Reyer's relief was palpable as he played the piano accompaniment, and Christine would have felt just as relieved were she not concentrating so hard on the blocking, on trying to feel Aminta's desire.

But she knew she was acting it better; she had discovered desire for herself, and she knew it would show in her performance.

Piangi made a mistake, this time lyrically rather than musically, and Reyer's hands crashed down upon the piano keys.

"No, no, no!" he said. "Signor, concentrate! You should know the words by now!" He glowered over the piano, and Christine lowered her eyes, tried to be unobtrusive. Beside her, holding a battered stage goblet, Piangi heaved a great sigh and shrugged his shoulders.

"I try," he said resignedly. "This line, I find very hard. Rich – rich – is not easy for me." He turned to Christine and she lifted her gaze, a little startled. "I apologise," he said. "And to you also, Monsieur. I try, but this music…is so difficult."

"Yes," she said, glanced uncertainly at Reyer. "Yes, it is."

"You – you make it so easy," Piangi went on. "I do my best, but…" He shrugged again. "We try again, yes?"

Reyer sighed. "Yes," he said. "Once again, from the beginning of the verse." Christine returned to her earlier position, picked up the wax apple from the table. Reyer played a chord, and Piangi started again. Christine went through her blocking, concentrating more on Piangi's singing than her own movements – and she was sure Reyer was doing the same, for he made no comment when she miss-stepped. It was not a flaw Erik would have overlooked, but then his patience was more limited than Reyer's.

Piangi managed the line, and a grin escaped him as he completed the verse. Now it was Christine's turn, and she sang her lines, moved as directed, found herself thinking of Erik as she performed Aminta's brazen actions and hoped she wasn't blushing.

At last they finished, at last the duet had been sung through once without interruption, and Christine couldn't quite contain a smile at Piangi's relief – and Reyer's.

"I try harder," Piangi promised her, gathering his score together. "This one – is the worst. The rest, I do better, yes?"

"Yes," Christine assured him, smiled wider at him. Piangi seemed to have put aside any displeasure he felt at working with her rather than his usual leading lady, and he _was_ trying hard. He, like everyone else, knew the importance of this opera.

Her smile faded; she had yet to think of any way to avoid performing in it. And truly, she did not _wish_ to abandon it. The work was strange and difficult, but it was Erik's, and she knew how much it meant to him.

But she had no wish to be used to entrap him. She must speak to him about it, must urge him to stay away from the premiere – or from box five, at the very least. She was sure he must have other places where he could watch the opera, hidden away from Raoul and the armed policemen who would be there waiting to capture him.

Or kill him.

Christine shivered, pushed the thoughts away, picked up her score and went to the piano.

"You're getting there," Reyer was telling Piangi. "But focus on the _words_, Signor – and please, practice your part of the duet. It simply must be perfect." He glanced at Christine, nodded once. "Very good, Mademoiselle," he praised. "Excellent work, as always. Now, I suggest you both go and have lunch. We're going through act one this afternoon, don't forget – on the stage, not a rehearsal room."

"Oh, are the sets ready?" Christine asked, startled. Usually rehearsals only transferred to the stage once the sets were constructed and ready to use, and although she paid little attention to the workshops that created sets, costumes and props for the operas, she was surprised the sets were finished so soon.

"Not quite," said Reyer, "but Madame Giry has requested it, for the dancing." He shrugged a shoulder, and Christine nodded. "Well, go on then," he said. "Signor, Mademoiselle." He turned away, rifled through a stack of papers on top of the piano, and Christine and Piangi left the room, she intent on going to the canteen to find something to eat. It had been a long morning, and she was dancing this afternoon, needed to eat something.

And to find Meg, for Meg was such a support, such a good friend, and she would make sure the other dancers continued to ask no questions. She would probably help if Raoul appeared, as well – something that Christine was dreading.

It must be nearly midday, she imagined – which meant twelve hours to go. If she could get through those twelve hours without seeing Raoul, she would be relieved.

"I do not know how you make it so easy," said Piangi as they walked down the corridor together. "The music – is so…so discordant, is the word, no?"

"Yes," said Christine softly. "It's very different. But you are improving, Signor."

"Ah, well," said Piangi with an expansive sigh. "Was written for you, no? Understandable that you can sing it so."

She flushed; although he'd meant nothing by it, had only spoken the truth that everyone in the opera house knew, she hated to be linked to the Ghost. Even now, knowing she loved him, she hated the association. There had been whispered suggestions that she was only a star because the Ghost willed it – and worse, she had heard vicious rumours of what she had _done_ to make the Ghost favour her. Rumours that made her blush and made her angry, that had caused even Meg's temper to flare.

Some of the rumours were closer to the truth than she was comfortable with. Most people seemed to know now that she had been taught by the Ghost. They knew he had written this opera for her. Even now she did not want that association, wished she had come to this on her own merit.

And yet without Erik, what would she be? Simply another dancer. Oh, it was so hard, to wish for her own reputation, to be able to acquire parts because she was the right choice and not simply because she was the Ghost's choice – and yet to know she owed everything to him.

"I will see you this afternoon," said Piangi then as they reached a junction, gesturing left. "I go this way."

"Yes – yes, this afternoon," said Christine, a little distracted, but she smiled at him, watched for a moment as he ambled down the passage. He'd meant no harm by his words, she knew – had only meant to compliment her. Still, the sting of it hurt more than she had expected, now she had been reunited with Erik. Now she no longer feared the Ghost so much.

Christine sighed, hurried through the opera house to the canteen. Rumours and gossip would amount to little if she performed in the opera and made a success of it – and she was sure it _could_ be a success, if everyone mastered the score. Reyer certainly liked it, thought audiences would appreciate it if only the cast could pull it off.

If she proved her mettle in such an opera, Christine thought she would never worry about gossip again. She would prove she belonged in her position, prove she deserved to be a star. A diva, the prima donna if Carlotta ever stepped aside.

She would prove herself.

"Mademoiselle Daaé? Mademoiselle, a moment!"

Christine paused, glanced behind her and summoned a smile for Monsieur André.

"Good morning, Monsieur," she said politely. "Did you wish to speak with me?"

"Yes – yes," said André, a little breathless as he came to a halt beside her. He had been hurrying to catch up with her, she judged, and could only wonder that it had taken the managers this long to come to speak to her. She had, after all, been absent for two days. She waited patiently while André caught his breath, clutched her libretto close and tried to keep her expression open, polite.

Tried to act as though she had nothing to conceal.

"I wonder if you'd mind coming up to the office?" André said at last. "Firmin and I – well, of course we knew you were gone, and we're very pleased nothing untoward has happened to you…" He faltered, and Christine tried to keep smiling. André fidgeted a little, obviously a little uncomfortable. "The Vicomte has suggested you're…well, that something might have happened," he said eventually. "That perhaps…" He paused again, glanced around and waited as someone passed them by.

Christine knew what he was going to say before the words were spoken. She knew Raoul must have spoken to the managers, during those two days she had been gone about the possibility that the Ghost had taken her. She suspected now that he had spoken to them yesterday, had mentioned his doubts to them about the veracity of her story.

"Well, you can understand our concern," said André then. "The Ghost…" His voice was lowered, as if he feared being overheard, and Christine nodded slowly, glanced around as he had only moments before. This corridor was not busy, but she was aware that sound travelled.

Gossip travelled.

"Mademoiselle?" André prompted her, and Christine looked back at him, bit her lip momentarily.

"I was going to lunch," she said. "I – of course if you wish me to come, I will, but…"

"We won't keep you too long," said André, jovial now he was assured of her agreement. "You'll have plenty of time to eat, I'm sure." He held a hand out, indicated for her to precede him. For a moment Christine wondered if he wanted to keep her in front so he could see her, could watch to make sure she did not flee.

Then she dismissed it; André was decent enough, was not sly in that way. Erik might do such a thing, even Raoul, but not friendly, worried André.

She led the way to the managers' office, and wondered what they would ask her.

She wondered what she could say in response.


	31. Chapter 31

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"You say you simply slipped and hit your head? Nothing…nothing occurred, to frighten you, perhaps?" Firman asked.<p>

"No, Monsieur," said Christine. Firmin had been waiting in the office, and he and André had been questioning her closely on her story for nearly twenty minutes now. "Nothing frightened me," she added. "Nothing at all. I lost my footing. The paving there is quite uneven."

"Even the Vicomte admitted that much," André put in. "But Mademoiselle – forgive me, but Monsieur le Vicomte has told us…well…"

Christine felt a prickle of anger, an almost physical sensation, and she sat a little straighter, lifted her chin as she looked at him.

"Monsieur," she said, and tried to remain polite, tried to remind herself that these were her managers and she did not have the best of relationships with them as it was. "Monsieur, with respect, my private life is none of your business."

"Of course not," said André quickly, held a hand out as if to show he'd had no intention of offending her. "Of course, of course."

"But when your life intersects with the business of the opera house," Firmin said, "I'm afraid it _is_ our business." He came around the desk, leaned against it and looked down at her. "The Vicomte believes the Ghost had you," he said bluntly. "And that you've been…threatened, or intimidated in some way."

"Neither is true," said Christine at once, shook her head and met his gaze. "As I said, I was taken in by a good Samaritan. And as to the other – messieurs, I am not happy that he spoke of such things to you."

"He's concerned for you," said André, clearly trying to mitigate a little of his colleague's brusqueness. "I gather you've broken your engagement with him?"

"A jilted lover is all we need," Firmin muttered, and he pushed away from the desk, paced away towards the window. André flinched, and Christine nodded slowly. Their concern was for their business, for the opera house – for what would happen if Raoul withdrew as patron because of his offended pride.

It made Christine angry, so helplessly angry. She knew she was nothing to them – a pawn, a method for making money, a puppet to dance when they told her to – and she knew that this was the life she had chosen. She would always be at the mercy of others because she chose performance, chose her art. Managers could decide she was not profitable, casting directors could ignore her. That was the uncertainty of theatre, and every performer was aware of it at least peripherally.

But for them to attempt to interfere in her private life was another matter. Even if they feared that Raoul would leave, that did not give them the right to – to –

No, she told herself. Calm. They had made no comment yet, had not tried to persuade her to think again. Perhaps they would not; perhaps their concern lay merely in the suggestion that the Ghost had threatened her. Perhaps they simply thought she would withdraw from the opera, were worried for their profits.

"Mademoiselle, I know you are afraid," said André gently to her. "But if you did see the Ghost…if he's threatened you in any way – it's in your best interest to tell us. We can only help you if we know what's happened."

Christine counted her breathing for a moment, strove for calm. "Monsieur," she said at last, "please believe me. I have not seen the Ghost since the masquerade ball." It was not _quite_ a lie – Erik was not the same as the Ghost, was not _entirely_ Opera Ghost, and certainly she now saw so much more than simply the Ghost in him. "Nobody has threatened me," she went on. "And thank you, but I don't need any help."

André exchanged a glance with Firmin; they did not believe her. But there was little Christine could say – and she knew that her word counted for less with them than Raoul's, anyway. He was male, a patron, a member of an aristocratic family.

She was a singer, a woman, a nobody even after her successes over the past six months.

"Firmin, I'm not sure –" began André, then cut himself off as Firmin directed a glare at him. Christine lowered her gaze to her lap, twisted her fingers together. She was aware that time was passing, the time allotted for lunch slipping by. She would be expected in rehearsals shortly, and if the managers kept her for much longer she would not have time to eat anything.

"Monsieur André," she said softly, "you said you wouldn't keep me long – I will be due in rehearsals soon…"

"Surely you can see our point of view," said Firmin, disregarding her words. "The Vicomte – he's a powerful patron for us. You can't simply trifle with a man like that. You're young, I suppose, and you don't understand such things, but –"

"Firmin, really," said André, a note of reproach in his voice, and his glance took in Christine's hot, flushed cheeks. The implication that she had been trifling with Raoul – and the concurrent implication that she should remain with him for the good of the opera house – made her both ashamed and angry.

She could express neither; she was reasonably sure that neither man would pay any attention to her even if she did.

"All we ask is that you think carefully before making any decisions," said André, and he lifted a hand to halt Firmin when it seemed the other man would speak. "You're quite right, we have no right to interfere with your private life. But please think carefully about how that might affect the opera house."

He was trying to be nice, trying to be delicate. He was trying to allow her the dignity of an illusion of privacy, whilst still attempting to make her see the possible consequences. Christine nodded, bit her tongue so hard she could taste blood, hot and metallic in her mouth.

"Yes, Monsieur," she murmured at last. "May I go?"

"Yes, yes," sighed André, and Firmin nodded, waved a hand in dismissal. Christine rose, tried to be dignified as she picked up her score from the desk and left the room. Tried to be graceful and tried not to show how she was affected by the things they had said.

By their insinuations.

She hurried along the hallway, felt her cheeks flush once more as she turned their words over in her mind, their meaning. They – or at least Firmin – seemed to be assuming that she had toyed with Raoul's affections, had agreed to an engagement only to improve her own prospects. That now she was a leading lady, she had no further need of him.

Others had patrons, of course – Sorelli, the prima ballerina, had been engaged in an affair with a wealthy man for many years. Carlotta had never bothered, but then she had Piangi, and although Christine could not think charitably of Carlotta, she could at least credit the woman with feeling true affection for her partner.

But Christine had never dreamed of it – she'd thought she'd loved Raoul, had never even _thought_ of how it might improve her position at the opera house.

Had never had to think of it, she realised, because Erik had made sure she was elevated from ignominy without having to resort to a wealthy, powerful patron.

"Christine?"

Christine whirled around, her anger slipping from her control. "How dare you?" she demanded, and Raoul came to a halt, frowned at her. "How _dare_ you, Raoul? I _work_ here! Do you have any idea the damage you might have done to me?"

Raoul glanced around swiftly, reached to take her arm and pulled her into the closest room – an office, she saw, but an empty one at least. She pulled away from him, silent as he shut the door, silent as she tried to calm her temper.

"Christine, I am concerned for you," said Raoul then. "You've been acting strangely ever since you came back. I know the Ghost is behind it, and of course I told André and Firmin. They do own this place, after all, they have a right to know what's going on."

"A right – Raoul!" Christine was almost speechless, turned away from him and flung her libretto onto a desk. "Raoul," she said, measuring her words carefully, "you have left them with the understanding that I was only attached to you to improve my position here. Do you realise what that means for my reputation?"

Raoul was silent, and she glanced back at him, saw his chagrined expression. No, she saw, he had not realised. Raoul, who understood so little of how her world worked, had not realised what damage he could cause by a few careless words to the men who could so easily destroy her career.

He had not realised, but she could not accept that as an excuse. The damage was done, and Christine had no idea what harm might befall her because of it. She was already in a precarious position thanks to Erik's involvement in her career, thanks to Raoul's insistence that she be bait for the Ghost.

Far too precarious; she could not afford more gossip, more scandal.

"Raoul," she said, "I can only say it so many times. The Phantom has nothing to do with this – with us. And I cannot marry you."

"I don't believe you," said Raoul, blunt and abrupt, and Christine exhaled sharply, lifted her hands to keep him from her as he stepped close. "Christine, none of this is like you. I _know_ he's done something to me."

"Done something to me?" Christine echoed, and she shook her head, took a step backwards to keep out of his reach. His gaze was fixed on her, focused and intent, and it made her shiver. He was jealous, she realised, so profoundly jealous that he could not admit any truth in her words.

This – this was partly why she'd had doubts for so long, doubts that she'd ruthlessly suppressed until Erik had made her expose them. Raoul did not see her, did not see Christine Daaé. He saw the woman he believed belonged to him, and in his view, the only thing that could have turned her from him was a rival.

Erik.

And it wasn't true – or at least, it wasn't the whole truth. Yes, there was Erik, and Christine knew nobody would ever make her feel the way he did. But the way Raoul made her feel, the way he had increasingly made her feel over the past few months…that was as much a reason to break their engagement as Erik was.

"Raoul, I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions," she said at last, and her tone was cold – even Raoul heard it, fell back a pace and looked at her with a little surprise. It was almost as if he was seeing her for the first time, and Christine straightened a little, lifted her chin and stared him down. "That you don't consider me so is insulting. And that you went to my _employers_ about my personal life is unacceptable."

"Christine – I – I didn't think of it in that way," said Raoul, and Christine nodded once, pressed her lips together to keep from berating him again. "I apologise," said Raoul at last. "I…I can see that…"

"No, Raoul," said Christine. "You don't see anything. You _won't_ see. You and I – we couldn't work, Raoul. And I don't – I don't love you. You must try to stop loving me."

She turned, picked up her libretto. "Please try to accept it," she said. "And _please_ don't speak to the managers about it again."

"Christine, I only have your best interests at heart," said Raoul, so completely unable to admit defeat, to concede. Christine took a deep breath, shook her head. "Christine, I love you. And I know you love me, despite what you say."

"I don't," she whispered. "I wish I knew how to make you believe me. But believe me when I say that you will lose even my friendship if you don't stop."

She fled the room, fled from his belief in her love. She was due in rehearsals, and she tried to fill her thoughts with Erik's opera. Tried to forget the problems Raoul had caused for her.


	32. Chapter 32

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine stumbled through the run through of act one, danced when she had to and sang when it was required, but she knew Meg at least could tell that something was wrong – Reyer too, she thought dully, when the director cast her more than one slightly suspicious look.<p>

The rehearsal finished promptly at half past four, to allow the corps de ballet time to prepare for their evening's performance of _Coppélia_, and Christine hurried from the stage before anyone could stop her. Before Meg or Reyer – or any of the others who cared enough to bother – could ask her what was wrong.

She went to her dressing room, shut the door behind her and sank into the chair at the dressing table. She put her head in her hands, but she didn't cry. She'd cried so much down in Erik's home, but she couldn't cry now – _wouldn't_ cry over Raoul.

He wasn't worthy of her tears, not as Erik was.

Perhaps, she thought bitterly, her career was already marred. Perhaps the Ghost's interference in her career, his obvious preference for her, had ruined her in the eyes of the managers. But hadn't she proved herself? Six months she had been performing, had sung onstage and won the acclaim of audiences and critics alike. And she had done so without Erik, and without Raoul as well – because even if he had influenced the managers, either before or after they had known of the engagement, Raoul had not had anything to do with her debut.

So long ago now, that day when the backdrop had fallen on Carlotta and Meg had spoken up for her. That night, so magical in so many ways.

No, she decided, she had proved herself once and she could continue to prove herself if necessary. Raoul must learn to leave her alone, would comprehend her refusal of him if she remained adamant, and after the plot for _Don Juan _failed…

The plot. Christine could only hope to persuade Erik to stay away, from box five at the very least. Because there was no way for her to withdraw from performing, not now the sets were nearly complete, the costumes…the rehearsals.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered. "I won't let them get you."

So close now, the hour of reunion, and yet it still felt impossibly far. A little over seven hours, and she could fill them easily enough. The dancers would have an early supper, and she could join them, and perhaps she could find a returned seat in the stalls to watch the ballet – or perhaps, she thought with a wry grin, she could simply go to box five. Despite the managers' feelings towards their resident Ghost, they had not attempted to sell it since the disastrous premiere of _Il Muto_ when Raoul had occupied it.

A destroyed chandelier had been enough for them; they would not tempt fate again.

Someone knocked lightly at the dressing room door, startling her from her thoughts, and a moment later Meg came in.

"You hurried away so quickly," she said. "And you were so distracted in rehearsal – what's the matter, Christine?"

"Nothing really," said Christine, tried to summon a smile for her friend but Meg raised an eyebrow sceptically. "I – the managers asked to see me, Raoul has been speaking to them."

Meg seemed to grasp the implications immediately; she nodded, mouth drawn downwards in a frown.

"I see," she said. "He doesn't really understand the way things work here, does he? But don't be upset, Christine, he's not worth it – and I'm sure the managers will understand the situation, if he keeps talking to them about it. They'll understand that he's only heartbroken."

Christine sighed. "Oh, I hope so," she said. "But you're right, I shouldn't be upset. Was I terribly distracted? Did it show?"

"To me" said Meg with a shrug. "And perhaps to some of the girls, but I'm sure nobody else noticed." She held a hand out for Christine, smiled at her. "Come on," she said. "Come and eat with us."

Christine hesitated. It was what she'd thought she would do, only moments before, but now Meg had suggested it she found that a meal with the girls did not appeal to her. They had asked no questions at breakfast, but she knew them well – knew their appetite for gossip.

And she was tired; wanted to rest before her midnight appointment.

"Thank you, Meg," she said. "But I think I'm going to go and lie down for a while." She left her music on the dressing table, rose and tried another smile. "It's been a long day, and I'll be out late."

"Ah! Don't tell me," said Meg, but she was laughing as she gave the warning. "Alright, if you're sure. You will eat something though, won't you? You missed lunch."

"I'm not really hungry," Christine protested, but Meg's expression was so like Madame Giry's that she had to laugh, nodded her head. "Alright, I promise," she said. "And I'll come and watch the ballet, too."

Meg hesitated then, darted forward and took Christine's hands. Christine looked at her, surprised by the excitement that Meg was trying to suppress, the pleasure in her friend's expression.

"Maman says I should get Swanhilda next time," Meg whispered, and she laughed at Christine's expression. "I know! They'll probably run _Coppélia_ again in the summer, and she says if I keep working hard – I know it should be Sorelli's part, but she's retiring soon, you know."

"I didn't," said Christine thoughtfully, but she wasn't surprised – Sorelli had been prima ballerina here for many years, and although she was still a wonderful dancer, she was getting older.

"She wants to be with her daughter," said Meg with an expressive shrug of her shoulders. "You know she had to send her away to be with her parents. Still, _I_ don't care what she does, not if it means I get the lead in _Coppélia_!"

Christine laughed, shook her head. "I suppose not," she said. "But that's wonderful, Meg. I'm so pleased for you." She kissed Meg's cheek, hugged her close. "Truly. You deserve it."

"Thank you," said Meg, and she giggled, pulled away and pirouetted. "Oh, I hope I get it! But you mustn't tell anyone, Christine – Maman said I could tell you, but not anyone else."

"I'm good at keeping secrets," said Christine, and Meg's laughter faded, she looked at Christine solemnly.

"I know," she said. "I know you are." So many secrets, so much that Christine could share with nobody – even Meg. Erik's secrets. Yes, Christine had become very good at keeping secrets.

"Go on," she said at last. "You don't want to be late."

"Christine…" Meg sighed, nodded. "Alright. But please, don't spend all evening alone. It isn't good for you, you know."

"I promise," said Christine again. "Honestly, Meg, you needn't worry about me. I'm quite alright – or at least, I will be."

Meg gave her one last look, measuring and cautious, and then she nodded again. "If you say so," she said. "I'll see you later, then. Will you be upstairs after the performance?"

Christine nodded; she would go to bed with the others, would wait until the lights went out then go to meet Erik under cover of darkness. If Madame Giry caught her, Christine was sure she'd be forbidden from going, and she had no intention of allowing anyone to prevent her from going to meet Erik tonight.

"Alright," said Meg, and she came close, wrapped her arms around Christine and hugged her tightly. "You're doing really well," she whispered. "And – and I'm so glad you're finally going to be happy."

Then she left, ran from the room as if afraid of what Christine might say in response. Christine stood silent for long moments, hugged herself and closed her eyes.

Happy. Yes, she would be happy. It had been so long since she had felt such happiness as she anticipated feeling with Erik. It would be hard – yes, Madame Giry was right, she had chosen the hard path for herself.

And yet there was no choice, not really. He was Erik, and she was Christine, and so they belonged together. No matter how he scared her, no matter how great his temper, she felt sure he would make her happy.

But, she thought, she would not tell him about Raoul's actions. She would conceal from him the precarious position Raoul had put her in by speaking to the managers – assuming he did not know already. He seemed to know most of what happened in the opera house, although even he could not be everywhere at once.

No, she would not tell him about that. She knew how he would react, knew what he would do. More notes, those black-rimmed notes that made everyone afraid. It would only be further ammunition for the managers – and she wasn't even sure that Raoul's actions would have any serious, long-term effect.

And if it did… if, after the plot failed, the managers evicted her from her starring role…

Well, she would deal with that when it happened. Erik would have to know then, of course, but hopefully by then she would have worked out what to say to him, to persuade him to show restraint.

By then they would be together. He would accept that she meant what she said, that she meant it when she said she loved him. And so much would change when he believed her.

She smiled to herself then, glanced at the mirror, thought of the passage behind and the home across the lake.

Then Christine left the dressing room, made her way up through the opera house to the dormitories, practically empty at this hour as the dancers ate their supper and prepared for the evening performance. She would lie down and rest for a few hours, she determined, and then she would go to watch the ballet – either from the stalls or, if she dared, from box five. It would fill the time between now and midnight, would distract her and occupy her mind.

She reached her bedroom without incident, shut the door and discarded her dress, hung it up carefully to keep it free from wrinkles. She unhooked her corset, grimaced at the ache in her back. A corset was not made for dancing, but her costume for the market scene included one, and so she had to practice in it.

Not bothering to change into a nightgown, Christine crawled into her bed, pulled the blankets close around her. The bedroom had warmed over the course of the day, but she was grateful for her thick quilt nonetheless, brought it up almost over her head and settled down to rest.

Just a few hours left, she thought to herself happily. Just a few hours.

That thought comforted her, filled her with joy as she drifted into an easy sleep.


	33. Chapter 33

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>The striking clock woke her, and Christine rolled over, pushed the blankets off her face and stared up into darkness for long moments until she realised that she had been asleep and was now awake.<p>

She couldn't have slept long – and the clock had struck seven, so if she hurried, she wouldn't miss any of the ballet. The bedroom was still warm enough to avoid shivering as she got out of bed, fumbled to the dresser to light a candle. The curtains were drawn across the small window, but it was dark outside anyway, and in a moment the candle was lit and she had enough light to dress by.

Christine looked at the pink dress, hanging as she had left it just a few hours ago, and wished for a moment for some of the clothes in the wardrobe down in Erik's home. The beautiful finery, fit for watching an opera. Elegant silks, brightly coloured and trimmed. Clothes to make her feel like a grand lady.

But they were down in the bedroom he had made for her, and she had only her own clothes to choose from. The pink dress, then. Christine reached for her corset, then clothed herself in the lovely rosebud gown. If it was not opera finery, she comforted herself that at least she looked pretty.

She'd promised Meg she would eat something, she remembered, but even now she wasn't hungry. Her stomach was fluttering oddly with nerves, increasing as time passed and midnight grew ever closer. She didn't think she could eat – although she knew she should try.

But she'd promised to see the ballet as well, and she didn't have time for both. The ballet, she decided, was more important. She could always eat afterwards.

Her hair had tangled in her sleep, so she pulled the ribbon free, brushed her hair with swift, firm strokes. She pondered tying it up, trying to form the mass of curls into an elegant knot the way Meg sometimes helped her manage – but it would be too difficult, and too time-consuming, she decided. The ballet would start soon, and even with Meg's help, pinning her hair up took far too long. But she found a fresh ribbon, tied her hair back as usual and scrutinised herself in the small mirror.

She wished once again for one of those lovely evening gowns, but she would scarcely be seen – not if she crept into box five, as she intended, just after the performance had begun. Nobody would be there to see her, nobody to comment on her dress or on her chosen seat.

The dormitory corridor was deserted – the dancers would all be in their dressing rooms, or perhaps in the wings already, waiting for the first cues. Christine hurried as she went down the stairs, past Madame Giry's room, down through the building towards one of the doors that connected the vast, labyrinthine working side of the opera house with the elegant richness of the front of house.

Box five, as Christine had assumed, was empty, and she managed to enter it unobserved. She closed the door carefully behind her and then looked around, smiled slightly as she realised she had never been here before. She'd been in several of the other boxes – when she was younger, she and the other dancers had wandered around the boxes and played in the auditorium when they weren't required at lessons, until somebody found them and chased them away.

But never this one, and that was hardly surprising given its reputation as the Ghost's box. The Ghost had been present in the opera house for so many years before the accidents had increased, before the notes had become more commonplace.

This had been the Ghost's box even when Christine had arrived at the opera house, a scared child left orphaned and all alone.

There was nothing special here to indicate its status. The carpet was as soft and deep as the carpets in the other boxes. The chairs were upholstered as the other chairs were. There was a small table by the door, for drinks or programmes or ladies' purses.

Christine cautiously stepped further into the box, tried to keep to the shadows as she looked out at the auditorium, the thousands of people settling into their chairs as the orchestra began to play. The stage, and it was so strange to see it from this angle, to see it from any position other than the wings.

She could understand why Erik had chosen this box, she realised. This must be the best view in the house.

One chair was positioned so that it was cloaked in shadow but still commanded that view, and Christine paused for a moment, bit her lip as she looked at it. Entering the Ghost's box was one thing, but sitting in his chair? Then she shook her head at her own silliness. Erik's box; Erik's chair. And when had he denied her anything? Surely he would not mind if she sat in his chair.

She sat, sank into the deep cushions, sighed a little as she realised she could smell his cologne. It caused a lump in her throat, and she had to close her eyes for long moments, fought tears.

Two days had seemed long below ground; above, time had slowed to a crawl. She could not believe, now, that she had ever been able to go so long without seeing his face, hearing his voice. Six months was an eternity that she could not contemplate.

She longed to see him, to smile at him and have him smile at her in return. To touch him – to hold him and yes, to kiss him. She thought perhaps, when she returned to him, he might allow that. He might begin to understand, begin to believe.

He might kiss her, might hold her in his arms and accept that she loved him, desired him. Despite his actions, despite his face, although Christine could not argue even to herself that she would be able to look on it without flinching. At least at first. A person, she supposed, could get used to anything, and she loved him. His face was marred, and so perhaps was his mind – there was something of madness in the way he acted at times, and certainly he suffered greatly from dark moods – but she loved him despite those things.

And if she loved him, she must accept the bad as well as the good. She must accept his face as she accepted his music. His black moods and his temper as well as the way he made her feel. The whole, or nothing.

There could be no compromises, not with Erik.

"Christine."

She jumped, startled, looked up to find Madame Giry standing beside her. The ballet mistress had moved without sound – or perhaps Christine had merely been distracted, which was perhaps more likely. Distracted by her thoughts, and her eyes fixed on the stage.

"Madame," she said, kept her voice low so she didn't draw unwanted attention from the other members of the audience. "Did – did you want me?"

"I went upstairs to look for you," said Madame Giry, just as quiet, "but I had a feeling I might find you here." She was silent for a long moment, looked out at the stage, and Christine looked too, watched the dancers and wondered what Madame Giry was thinking, why she had gone searching for her.

"You are truly intent upon this course, then," said Madame Giry eventually. "You have no doubts? Can you say to me truthfully that you do not doubt this choice at all?"

"No," murmured Christine. "Of course not. I know…I know all the things that should turn me away from him. The reasons why I should shun him. But Madame…I love him. He is my heart."

"Oh, so dramatic," scoffed Madame Giry. "You children, you think everything is life and death. But with him it will be. There will be no changing your mind – he will not let you. You know that."

"I do," Christine nodded, and she looked up at her guardian again, at the stern lines of her face, the weariness in her expression. "Madame…didn't you love your husband?" she asked softly. "Everyone has faults, don't they?"

Madame Giry sighed, shrugged her shoulders. "Yes," she agreed. "That is true. But some faults are greater than others."

Christine nodded again. That was true too, and Erik's faults – some of them at least – were great indeed. But she had faults of her own. She had listened too easily to the opinions of those around her, had not made up her own mind about things. It had almost cost her…so much. Her future happiness.

And other faults too. She was shallow, she knew that, and she was indecisive. Perhaps her faults were not comparable with Erik's, but they were faults, and she must strive to overcome them.

"I love him," she said at last. "And I can't lie, Madame. Of course I have doubts. But not…not about choosing him." She glanced around the box, this box which was as close to Erik as she could get for the moment. No, she did not question herself about the choice. There were questions still, there were doubts, about so many things – but not about choosing him.

No, not about that.

"Well," said Madame Giry, sighing again, "I cannot stop you. But you know the Vicomte won't give up so easily."

Christine nodded, shivered slightly. "I know," she whispered. "He – he spoke to the managers about it, even. I can barely believe he would put my career in such jeopardy. I know he doesn't understand, but…"

"Your career will be safe enough," said Madame Giry, and she rested a hand on Christine's shoulder, squeezed gently. "You have done so well, these past months. You've been well-reviewed, and despite everything, I think you've impressed the managers."

"Really?" Christine said, looked up at Madame Giry again. "I've worked so hard – the idea that I might lose it all just because Raoul doesn't understand how these things work…"

Madame Giry nodded, smiled a tight smile. "Yes," she said. "I can see that. I suppose that's another reason you can't marry him."

Christine nodded. "It means so much to me," she said. "I love what I do, Madame."

"Well, it's decided," said Madame Giry, and she pulled away from Christine, looked out at the stage once more. "I hope you do not regret it, Christine. Truly. I do wish for your happiness."

It was as close to acceptance as Madame Giry would ever come, Christine knew – and as close to saying how she felt. Madame Giry was not demonstrative, had never been overly affectionate even to her own daughter. Meg often joked, in fact, that Madame Giry was stricter with her than with anyone else.

But Madame Giry _did_ care, even if she seldom showed it. And she would no longer try to persuade Christine, she knew – she had accepted Christine's decision, even if she did not, could not agree with it.

It lifted some weight from her, made her feel a little easier. Christine hadn't wanted to ruin her relationship with her guardian, the woman who had looked after her since her father's death – but had been willing to let that happen if it meant being with Erik.

Now she could have both, and it made her feel happier.

"I'll leave you to watch the ballet," said Madame Giry then. "Try not to be seen leaving here. There are enough rumours surrounding you and the Ghost as it is."

She turned and left, and Christine settled down to watch the ballet. She heeded Madame Giry's advice, spent the rest of the performance still and silent in her chair – in _Erik's_ chair – and kept to the shadows of the box. She didn't even risk drawing attention to her presence in the box by applause, although it was well-deserved and she disliked not clapping for her friends.

She left just before the end, before the bows, to avoid being seen as she left box five and made her way back to the working side of the opera house. Madame Giry was right; there were far too many rumours about her as it was.

Being seen coming from the Ghost's box might not add much to those rumours, but Christine refused to give her detractors any more ammunition to use against her.


	34. Chapter 34

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Not long now," said Meg as she poured water into the bowl to wash her face. "Are you excited?"<p>

Christine nodded, bit her lip as she thought about it. The ballet had ended at a little past ten, and Christine had come up to the dormitory afterwards, tried to occupy herself by organising and reorganising her drawers. Meg had come up quite quickly, had seen Christine's mood with a glance and set herself to providing further distraction.

But the clock had just struck half past eleven, and soon it would be time for Christine to go. The sounds from the nearby bedrooms had ceased, and Meg was nearly ready for bed too, barely concealing her yawns.

"Yes," Christine said at last. "I'm excited. But…nervous." Meg glanced at her, and Christine shrugged, twisted her hands together in her lap. "I feel like I can hardly breathe," she admitted in a whisper. "I love him, but he…he doesn't believe me. He sent me away because he couldn't believe it."

"Oh, Christine." Meg dried her face, came to sit on the bed beside her. "You told me yourself," she said, "he's never known love. You'll have to be patient, I think."

"I know," said Christine, but she couldn't help sighing. "I know I will. I just…I hope he understands, when I see him tonight. He didn't think I'd be there, you see. He…" She struggled to explain it, to explain Erik's motivations. "He thought that once I was back up here, I'd realise I don't really love him. That it was all a mistake."

"But it's not."

"No, of course not." Christine smiled, hugged herself and thought of Erik's face when he saw her tonight, thought of what he might say and do when he finally realised that she meant what she said. That she truly loved him, that she had _chosen_ him. "Of course it's not a mistake. But he thinks that nobody could possibly love him. So…I suppose I'm nervous that he still won't believe me."

Meg nodded slowly. "I see. I think."

Christine laughed softly. "I'm sorry. I'm probably not explaining it well – but then I don't _really_ understand what he's thinking." She rose, brushed wrinkles from her skirts. "I don't think I ever will understand him," she admitted. "Not if I know him for the rest of my life. He's…Madame is right, it isn't going to be easy, loving him."

"But you don't have a choice," said Meg. "I know that. You love him." They were her own thoughts, reflected so simply by her friend, and Christine nodded. She had no choice; she loved him.

She went to wash her face and hands, dried herself carefully with the rough towel. The candlelight was barely enough to do more than glance at her face in the mirror, but the glance was enough to reveal how tired she looked. Christine sighed discontentedly, but there was little she could do about her pallor, the dark smudges beneath her eyes. The past few days, both above and below ground, had been long and tiring.

But Erik would not mind; Erik, she was sure, would describe her as beautiful even if she arrived in rags and covered in dirt.

The clock in the hall chimed, marked quarter to midnight, and Christine took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

"Alright," she said, "I'm going. I – I don't think I'll be back tonight. If I'm missed in the morning, say I've gone for a walk."

"Maman will know better," Meg pointed out as she got into bed, pulled the blankets up around herself. "What if she asks?"

Christine hesitated. Madame Giry had accepted her choice, but nevertheless, Christine knew she would not approve of Christine spending _another_ night with Erik in his home. It was, after all, highly improper.

But she could not be reunited with Erik only to leave him only minutes later, even if he suggested it. She could not allow it, would _insist_ that she went with him.

She flushed, and was glad of the darkness that concealed it from Meg. She did not think he would…that they would…no. That would not happen. Not given how he had reacted to a simple kiss. But she could stay in his home, sleep in the bed he had prepared for her. Perhaps he would hold her.

Perhaps he would let her feel his arms around her.

"I don't care," she said at last, bold and unashamed. "I don't care what she thinks."

Meg huffed a laugh, shook her head and pulled the blankets up to her nose. "If you say so," she said. "Good night, Christine. And good luck."

"Thank you," murmured Christine. She found a shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, blew out the candle and opened the bedroom door just enough to slip through.

The corridor was dark; there was not even any light from underneath the bedroom doors to part the darkness. But Christine knew the way, knew where to tread to avoid creaking floorboards, and she tiptoed down the passage, down the stairs and almost held her breath as she passed Madame Giry's room.

Madame Giry did not stir, did not hear her, and as Christine left the dormitories she became less cautious, moved without needing to be careful who heard her. The corridors and hallways she passed through were dark and empty. There might still be workers in the opera house, working late in their workshops or clearing the stage and auditorium from the night's ballet, but nobody crossed her path.

Few people ever came to the roof, and Christine met no-one as she made her way up through the opera house to the door that led out. Up a rickety staircase, through the door, and the wind cut into her as soon as she opened the door. Cold and harsh, it almost took her breath away, and she hesitated for a moment, knotted her shawl securely around her shoulders.

Hesitated only for a moment, because she had promised to meet Erik, and she would not let the wind stop her, or the cold.

She made her way slowly to the place she had brought Raoul, so many months ago now. The flat roof gave no protection from the wind, and she shivered, wrapped her arms around herself as she looked around. Nothing had altered here since the last time she had been here – only she had changed.

And she had changed, so much.

She went close to the edge, leaned against the stone wall that kept her safe from the precipice. It was a long way down; below her she could see lights spilling from windows, could see the streetlamps leading trails away from the opera house. Light from other buildings, too. Then she lifted her face upwards, looked at the stars so bright in the sky. The moon was still full, still a shining circle in the sky.

She wondered once again what would happen next. She had always dreamed of a fairytale ending, of a happily ever after. But she was an adult now, knew that reality could never be like a fairytale. She could have love and happiness, but neither would be blissful and easy. They could not be, for Erik was not an easy man.

And yet she loved him; and perhaps it was naïve of her, perhaps in this she was still a child, but she did still believe that if they loved one another, they would find a path through the difficulties.

Together.

Yes, it was naïve. She could admit that. But it was how she felt, what she hoped, and she would not be ashamed of it.

Love could overcome obstacles where she thought nothing else could.

Christine withdrew from the edge, glanced around the roof once again, rubbed her arms to try to create a little warmth. She was glad she'd remembered to bring her shawl, but it was scant protection from the cold, up here where there were no buildings or walls to break the wind. She longed for her thick winter coat, for a scarf and gloves. Her fingers were turning white, and she thought briefly of going back inside, of waiting for him just inside the door.

Church bells tolled midnight, and Christine shook her head, discarded the idea. She had promised Erik to meet him on the roof, and meet him she would.

Despite what he would no doubt say when he came and found her so cold. He would scold her, she thought, would hurry her into the warmth to protect her voice.

But she hardly cared for her voice now; all she wanted was Erik. And as the minutes ticked by, she hugged herself and hoped that he would come. Hoped he hadn't decided not even to give her a chance.

She heard her name, a whisper on the wind, and she turned to look. There he was, there was Erik, standing just a few feet away from her, cloaked in shadows except for his white shirt and his white mask.

Her Erik; and Christine couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't speak. She wanted to reach out to him, wanted to say something – say anything – but she was frozen. She stared at him, and he stared back.

She wondered what he was thinking, wondered if he finally believed her.

Then she shivered, and he frowned, closed the distance between them and took her hand in his.

"You're freezing," he muttered. "You're not wearing enough. What on earth were you thinking?"

She lowered her gaze, looked at her hand in his, so small in his clever hands, and she could say nothing. He made an impatient sound, released her hand and took off his cloak, wrapped it around her shoulders.

It smelled of him, and she lifted a hand to clutch at it, looked up at him again.

"Hello," she said softly.

"Hello," he returned, and he smiled, that lovely smile that softened his features so much. "You have come back," he said then, awe in his voice and on his face, and Christine nodded. "You've come back to me."

"I told you I would," said Christine. "I _told_ you." She clutched his cloak tight around her, felt his breath on her face. Wanted him to hold her, but consoled herself with the feel of the cloak, heavy and warm on her shoulders.

"Yes," he murmured, so softly the wind almost stole the sound away despite how close he was to her. "Yes, you…you said you would. But I…"

"I am here," said Christine, and she reached out for him now, lifted a hand and cupped his cheek, stroked his skin with cold fingers. "I am here," she repeated. "And I am not engaged. Nobody but you has a claim on me, now. I have come to you of my own free will, Erik. Because I want to. Because I love you."

He covered her hand with his, closed his eyes. "Christine," he murmured, and there was agony in his voice but there was hope too. "Christine, I cannot believe it. This…this cannot be real."

"I am touching you," Christine said softly. "That's real. Can you feel me, Erik?"

"I – yes." He was silent, opened his eyes again and looked down at her. Then he seemed to shake himself, to thrust aside whatever was going on inside his head. "I can feel how cold you are," he said, scolding her. "Come, you must get inside. You cannot risk getting ill."

"Yes, Erik," said Christine obediently, and let him usher her back to the roof door and inside into the relative warmth of the opera house.


	35. Chapter 35

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Erik closed the door behind them, shut out the moonlight, and Christine turned to him, reached a hand out.<p>

"Take me down to your home?" she requested. "Please, Erik?" She did not care if she sounded brazen, did not care that she had rehearsals tomorrow and would be missed if she was late coming from Erik's home. She did not care about any of those things.

And Erik didn't either, she realised, because he nodded, barely visible in the darkness.

"If you wish," he said. "I…had hoped you would want to. But then I hoped…"

Christine smiled, and kept holding her hand out. "I know," she said. He had hoped so much, and been so afraid of disappointment. But she was here now, and she would not allow him to be disappointed.

At last he took her hand, linked their fingers together and Christine almost wanted to laugh from the simple pleasure of holding his hand.

She didn't; she knew he would not appreciate it, would not understand the cause. He would think she was mocking him, would pull away from her and perhaps grow angry. And she would not allow their reunion to be marred simply because he could not understand that her laughter would be an expression of joy, not of derision.

"Come, then," he said, and he led her down the stairs, did not release her hand as he took her along a different route to the one she had travelled just a few minutes earlier.

He took her down stairs and corridors that she had hardly even known existed, dark passages that smelled of thick dust, and Christine kept close to him as they went. Clutched his hand tightly and trusted that he knew the way and could see in the dark, because she could barely see two feet ahead of herself.

She trusted Erik, and he moved surely, knew his way and she remembered what he had said about helping to design the opera house. Of course he would know the way, he who had lived here for so long and helped to create this building. He must know every hidden passage and out of the way staircase, would know every inch of the building.

She recognised some places. At one point they went near the dormitories, and then Erik took her away again, through a disused storeroom and down a ladder hidden beneath a trap door. That led into a passage she had never seen before, and the dust was even thicker here, she caught her hand on a spider web and gave a startled exclamation. Erik said nothing, but waited for her to shake it off before continuing.

Christine recognised the path when they reached ground level, and went deeper underneath the opera house. They had joined the route Erik had taken her before, the night he had taken her below after _Hannibal_ and then up again afterwards, and once again two nights ago. Down through the cellars of the opera house, and at last they reached the lake. The familiar boat was waiting for them, a lantern in the prow, and Erik helped her to board, made sure she was comfortable before untying the rope and pushing the boat from the shore.

"It's cold here," she observed, pulled Erik's cloak tighter about her, glanced over her shoulder at him. "Aren't you – do you need your cloak?"

"I'm fine," he assured her. "You need it more than I."

"Alright," said Christine, and she turned back, watched the lamplight on the water, watched ripples form as Erik navigated the boat across the lake.

They reached the far shore, and Erik leapt out to tether the boat, offered her his hands to help her out. She almost stumbled, her foot tangled in the hem of the cloak which swamped her, and Erik caught her, a hand at her waist as he steadied her.

They stared at each other, and Erik's hand on her waist was a warm weight even through layers of cloth. Then he moved his hand, smoothed it up her bodice, brushed the side of her breast and Christine's breath caught in her throat.

They'd spoken of desire, she'd admitted to him how she desired him. And yet had she felt it before, if this was how she felt now? His eyes were so intent on her, his gaze so hungry and possessive, and she wondered what he was thinking. She wondered if he would kiss her; wondered if he would dare.

But Erik was not that brave, not brave enough to kiss her even when she wished for it so keenly, and he released her – pulled back so abruptly Christine could not help but feel the sting of rejection, just for a moment.

Then she banished it, reminded herself what had happened when she had dared to kiss him. Remembered how he had fled, how he had been almost afraid of her then. He was clever, knew far more than she about many things…but she thought perhaps she knew a little more than he about this. About love.

"Come inside," he said. "You're still too cold."

She nodded, followed him into the house in silence. The fire was lit in the music room grate, and she went to it, stood and stretched her hands out to the warmth. A moment later she reluctantly took off the cloak, turned to give it back to him and found him standing beside her.

"What now?" Erik asked her, and Christine thought she had never heard him sound so nervous, so unsure. She ached for him, wanted to reach out and hold him, to reassure him that she would never leave him again – would never allow him to send her away.

And Christine was unsure too, was nervous, but in this she must take the lead. In this, she would be the teacher.

She folded the cloak, stepped away from him to put it down on his chair and then returned to his side. Held out her hands and smiled when he clasped her hands in his, linked their fingers together. She tugged a little, brought him closer to her, lifted her face to his.

"Now," she said softly, "I should very much like it if you held me, Erik." And she placed his hands, one on her waist and the other on her shoulder, lifted her own arms to circle his neck. Erik was stiff, seemed not to know what to do, but Christine was patient.

She had to be patient. She would not risk scaring him again, as she had when she had kissed him.

His fingers tightened on her shoulder; his hand at her waist exerted a gentle pressure, enough to bring her flush against him. Christine closed her eyes, rested her head against his chest and listened to his heart beat. Felt him trembling in her arms and said nothing, allowed him to get used to the sensation.

He sighed, a deep exhalation, and she felt him lower his head, press his face into her hair. His hand fell from her shoulder to join the other around her waist, and he held her tighter now, almost clutching at her, as if afraid she would vanish into nothingness if he did not hold her tightly within his arms.

She did not mind, said nothing, kept listening to his heartbeat and feeling as his trembling slowly, slowly began to cease. Felt him grow slowly, slightly more comfortable with this embrace.

He lifted a hand from her waist, tangled his fingers in her hair, and Christine hummed a little, pressed impossibly closer to him. She had longed for this, for him to hold her, embrace her. She'd longed to feel his arms around her, and now she felt him, now she was secure in his arms and it felt…

Wonderful.

So wonderful.

Nothing like being held by Raoul, and she felt guilty for the comparison, but nevertheless couldn't quite suppress the thought. Raoul had held her…not like this. He had been strong, firm, and she had always felt as though he would take care of her. Erik would take care of her too, of course, but he held her…

As if she was the only thing he had ever wanted. The only woman he had ever desired. And perhaps that was simply wishful thinking, perhaps she was flattering her own vanity, but she didn't think so.

Or at least, if he had desired other women, he had never been able to share it. That much she was certain of, from the way he reacted. His face had driven away any who he might have desired.

But Christine would not be driven away, would not allow his face to send her from him again.

"Christine," he murmured at last, and she lifted her head, looked up at him but didn't move away. Saw the awe in his face, the tears in his eyes. A single tear had spilled down his cheek, and she brushed it away with her fingertips.

"Don't cry," she whispered. "Please don't cry."

"I – I'm not," he denied, shook his head slightly, and Christine brushed away another tear.

"You are," she said. "But it's real, Erik. I'm here."

Because that was what he was afraid of, she thought, here in this moment. He was afraid that this was all a dream, that if he moved too quickly or spoke too much he would wake and find himself alone again.

She knew that, because she was almost afraid of the same thing.

"I'm here," she said again, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. There was a spark of something in his gaze, something that made her tremble a little. Made her nervous, even, and she licked her lips, felt her cheeks flush. Erik inhaled sharply, lowered his head as if – as if –

He pressed his mouth to hers.

It wasn't a kiss, not _quite_ – but then, the kiss she'd given him two days ago hadn't quite been a kiss. More a meeting of lips, and Christine closed her eyes, felt his lips against hers. He was hesitant, so hesitant, he expected that at any moment she would pull away. But she didn't; she moved her hands to his shoulders, returned the gentle pressure of his mouth. Parted her lips to his exploration, let him clutch her to him as he slowly began to kiss her more deeply.

Desire pooled in her stomach, sent shivers up her spine, and Christine was grateful for his arms about her, felt she could hardly keep standing if he kept kissing her like this. Perhaps he had never been kissed, perhaps he was new to this, but he learnt quickly and desire drove him – a desire she shared, and she clung to him, returned his passion with her own.

The mask was cold against her skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his mouth, and Christine wondered what it would be like to kiss him without that stark, cold barrier.

He pulled away abruptly, almost staggered away from her, and Christine stumbled a little without his support. Caught herself against a chair, was almost ashamed of how ragged her breathing was, how loud.

She lifted a hand to her mouth, couldn't quite believe how she felt. How he made her feel. Such a kiss, nothing like she had ever experienced before.

"Forgive me," he muttered, and Christine turned to him, opened her mouth to speak – to tell him that there was nothing to forgive, to reassure him that she had wanted that as much as he. But Erik's hand was at his mask, and it forestalled her words. She stared at him, eyes wide, waited for the inevitable action. "Forgive me," he said, "but I must know."

He removed the mask, and Christine saw his face once again.


	36. Chapter 36

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine straightened, forced herself to look, forced herself to meet Erik's gaze, controlled herself enough to keep from all but the barest flinch.<p>

And then she forced her eyes away from his, forced herself to look at his face.

The wig covered part of the deformity on his forehead, but part of it was visible. It was as though the bone had been peeled away; covered by skin, she thought, but a few thin layers, translucent and concealing nothing.

The skin of his cheek was marred, puckered, a twisted line down in front of his ear and then across the hollowed cheek. His lips were bloated, pulled downwards in a perpetual scowl.

Taken as a whole, it was an awful sight. She couldn't deny it. And yet…

And yet there was no disgust in her reaction, not really. Shock – yes, she was shocked now as she had been six months ago. But shock would fade, she knew. Familiarity would ease it; in time she would no longer be shocked, no longer look at his face and wonder how such a face could exist.

Not disgust, then – but desire? Was that present? Could she look on his face and wish to kiss him, as they had just kissed?

He looked at her, made no sound as he let her look her fill. He was shaking, she could see, tremors that wracked his body. But his eyes remained fixed on her – those eyes that had haunted her dreams for so long.

His beautiful, mismatched eyes.

He expected her to run, that was clear, expected a scream or some other expression of revulsion. But Christine was determined to be different – found, in fact, that she _was_ different. For she looked at his face and saw more than the deformity that marred it.

She saw Erik. The man she loved. And she loved him both despite and because of his face. Without it, he would be a different man. Perhaps a better man in some ways, but she did not love a better man. She loved this man.

Christine took a deep breath and stepped towards him. He flinched, stumbled back a pace, dropped his mask in his surprise. Christine reached out her hand, stepped close and touched his arm.

"Erik," she said softly. "Erik, kiss me again."

He pulled away from her touch, shook his head, lip curled in a snarl. "Don't you see?" he demanded. "Look at me, Christine!"

"I'm looking," she said, refused to be cowed by his temper. She stood firm, kept looking at him, and when he shook his head again she reached out and touched his cheek. "Erik," she said softly. "I see you."

He was shaking still, his eyes wide as he glanced down at her hand. Christine closed the gap between them, lifted her other hand so she held his face in her hands. One cheek smooth, the other pitted and marked. But she touched them both, lifted herself onto tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his bloated lips.

"Erik," she murmured. "I see you. And I still love you. You cannot drive me away by showing me your face."

He was crying again, silent tears that fell down his cheeks and over her fingers. So full of disbelief, and her heart ached for him. But she would not let him pull away – when he tried, she dropped her hands from his face and clenched her fists around the lapels of his jacket.

"No," she said. "Please don't run from me again." Her voice cracked; tears were close for her as well, but she refused to let them fall. She was determined to be strong, for Erik. "Won't you kiss me again, Erik?" she asked, coaxing him a little.

"You can't want me to," he denied at once. "Not…not like this."

Not without his mask, he meant. But the mask was an obstacle to kissing; it had been cold, and had impeded movement.

The mask was not him; it was a disguise he donned, much as the Opera Ghost was the guise he presented to the world. It was the man beneath that she loved, and Christine would not – _could_ not – allow him to suppose that she could only love him when he concealed his face. That would be no better than shunning him altogether, she considered. No better at all.

"Kiss me," she insisted. "Must I tell you how I want you?" He stared, and Christine smiled gently at him. "You make me burn," she said, and refused to allow herself to feel embarrassed. If this was what he needed, she would give it to him. "We spoke of desire. Remember, Erik? But I've never felt anything like I felt when you kissed me just now."

He made a choked noise, words cut off in his throat, and Christine released his jacket, lifted her hands to his face once more.

"I feel like my skin is the only thing holding me together," she whispered. "I – I –" But her bravery faltered, and she blushed, could no longer meet his eyes. "Erik," she whispered. "How can I make you believe me? I want nothing more in this moment than for you to kiss me."

"No?" he murmured. "I find I want many things. But a kiss will do for now."

Despite his words, he did not move towards her – did not move to join his mouth to hers. He was still afraid, she knew. Still so sure of rejection. So certain that she must be lying to him in word and action, because he held such a low opinion of himself.

Christine looked at him once more, met his eyes. She smiled at him, steadied herself against him and lifted herself onto tiptoe to kiss him.

How had she lived without this? How had she lived without knowing what this felt like? For once she had made the first move, Erik responded to her. His arms went around her again, clutched her to him, and his mouth moved against hers. His lips parted, and she _tasted_ him, moaned into his mouth as he learned so quickly how to kiss her.

His hands at her waist, his mouth kissing hers, her hands on his shoulder and cheek. Her world narrowed to these points of contact; everything else fell away, no longer existed.

And then he grew daring, then he lifted one hand from her waist to touch her cheek, her jaw. His fingers traced a line down her throat, across the skin bared by the neckline of her dress. His mouth moved from hers, followed the path of his fingers. Christine tilted her head back to give him better access, breathless from the kiss and from the sensation of his mouth on her neck.

"Erik," she whispered, and she shivered as he returned to her mouth, kissed her once again. So much passion – as she had thought, he had so much passion. It dwelled within him, needing only acceptance to find expression.

She was almost panting when at last he withdrew, so breathless when he rested his forehead against hers that it took long moments for her breathing to calm. He was similarly breathless, his chest heaving, and he seemed unable to speak even once he was no longer gasping for air.

Christine stroked his cheek, felt the puckered skin beneath her fingers. Erik closed his eyes, as if to concentrate better on the sensation. She wondered if anybody had ever touched his marred face – if anybody except her had touched him gently, like this. With love and kindness rather than hatred and disgust.

She doubted it. She didn't think he had ever known a tender touch – at least, not to his face.

Not even from his own mother.

His hands were tangled in her hair, cradling her head, and she closed her eyes, leaned against him. She was tired, she realised – if she were sensible, she would go to bed. She was not needed early at rehearsals, not needed until half past ten and so she could sleep in if necessary. But she didn't want to be sensible, didn't want to leave Erik.

She didn't want to step out of his embrace. His breath on her face, his thumb stroking her neck. The closeness she had longed for these past few days, a closeness she had perhaps feared would never be.

But he believed her, or was trying to believe. He was trying to overcome his own fears, and she could not bring herself to pull away first. Not when he would surely take it badly, not when this was where she wanted to be.

Here in his arms, held by him and holding him in return.

At last Erik sighed, slid his hands slowly from her hair. Christine opened her eyes, looked up at him – trailed her fingers down his cheek and across his lips.

"I love you," she whispered. "I love you." She traced the line of his mouth, saw the wonder in his gaze. "Do you believe me, Erik?" she asked then. "Do you believe me a little, at least?"

"I…I want to," he said slowly. "You…" She moved her hand back to his cheek, and he turned his face into it, leaned into her touch. Yes, she decided, she was right. He had never had a gentle touch, not to his face at least. Nobody had ever caressed his cheek as she did now; no kindness had ever been bestowed like this.

It was an ugly face; she was not blinded by her love for him. And yet it was his face, and his eyes were so wide as he looked at her, as he felt her touch his cheek. She could not find any disgust within her as she looked back at him, could not find horror. Familiarity would lessen the shock of it, and she _did_ desire him, even without the mask. She was glad to have discovered that, glad to have proved herself to both of them.

She was not a shallow, naïve little girl any longer. Love came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, and she looked at him now through the eyes of one who loved him. Not blinded by it – but neither was she blinded by seeing him as others saw him.

He was not a monster; he was a man.

He was the man she loved.

"Yes," he said then. "Yes, I…I think I am beginning to believe you." He took her hand, lifted it to her mouth, kissed her knuckles. "My Christine," he murmured. "Are you to be my Christine, then?"

"Yes," she said tenderly. "And you are my Erik."

He held her hand tightly in his, pressed it to his mouth. "Oh Christine," he breathed. "I hoped…how can I tell you how I hoped? I never believed you would come back to me."

Christine nodded; she knew that. She had promised she would, but she knew he'd believed she'd forget all about that once she was reunited with Raoul.

If anything, being with Raoul again had only solidified her determination to return. Raoul would never understand her as Erik did – and he would never, had never made her feel as she felt now, being held by Erik.

She banished Raoul from her thoughts; he had no place here, and she would not allow him to enter, an unbidden ghost.

Then she yawned, flushed as Erik smiled at her.

"It's late," he said. "You have rehearsals tomorrow. You should sleep."

"I'm not needed until half past ten," she objected, but she could not deny her fatigue. She longed to stay in Erik's arms, but her eyes were sore from tiredness and her limbs felt heavy. She knew Erik could see how white she was, the dark marks beneath her eyes – knew she could not overrule him.

She hesitated, wondered if she dared. But then surely he was feeling the same as she, surely he was no more eager to be parted than she was.

"Erik," she murmured at last. "Stay with me tonight?"


	37. Chapter 37

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Erik shook his head, eyes so wide as he stared down at her. As if he could not believe the words she had spoken, and Christine could hardly believe her own daring.<p>

"I – I want…" She stumbled over the words, felt her cheeks burn, tried to tug her hand from his but he would not let her go. "I want you to hold me," she muttered, tried to explain herself. "Not to…just to sleep beside me. That's all."

He was silent, and Christine could not read his expression. She could not tell what he was thinking, what he was feeling. His grip on her hand loosened, but she did not pull away, waited for whatever his response might be.

"Sleep," he said at last. "I do not think I could sleep…like that." Christine was hurt, tried not to show it – and Erik shook his head again, impatience obvious. "Do you not see?" he asked. "I have dreamed of you for so long. To have you so close…" He released her hand, brushed his fingertips across her lips. "Torture," he muttered. "Do you know how it would torture me, Christine?"

"I don't mean to torture you," she said, the sting of hurt eased by his words but leaving uncertainty and a little embarrassment. She should not have said it, should not have asked. Whatever their relationship now was, whatever it would evolve into, it was too soon and highly improper.

But she wanted it; she wanted to fall asleep with his arms around her, to wake with him beside her. She wanted more, of course she did – but not tonight. It was too soon, far too soon, for both of them. And anyway, she shouldn't think of such things, not…not until there was something permanent. Marriage. If such a thing could even happen with Erik.

Too many complications, and Christine thought she was only making things more complicated now by expressing her need to keep him close to her. If Madame Giry found out about it, she thought wildly, she would be appalled. An unmarried woman, sharing a bed with a man, was so wholly indecent.

And yet she wanted it.

"Please," she whispered at last. "I don't mean to…to torture you, but I…" She wrapped her arms around herself, lowered her head, waited for his answer.

He touched her lips again, brushed his fingers across her cheek. She shivered slightly, felt desire burning under her skin. But it was sluggish now, tempered with fatigue. Erik was right; she needed to go to bed, needed to rest.

Needed him beside her, although that was an emotional need rather than a physical one.

"If you wish it," he said softly, "we will try."

Christine's breath caught in her throat and she couldn't help a smile as she lifted her head again, looked up at him again. He wasn't smiling, looked strangely nervous – and she could understand that, she thought. He desired her with such intensity, and she could make an educated guess that he had never shared a bed with anyone before.

"Go and get ready for bed," he said then. "I'll – I'll join you shortly." He stepped away from her, picked up a candlestick and passed it to her. Christine took it, looked at him for a moment more and then turned and left the music room. She walked down the passageway, so familiar to her now, and went to her bedroom.

She moved around the room, lit candles on the dressing table and in the sconces on the walls, and then she went to the bed. Her nightgown was still neatly folded under the pillow, and she shook it out before beginning to undress. Shoes and stockings, bodice and skirt, and then her corset, savouring the release from constriction for a moment.

She pulled off her undergarments, shivered slightly as the chemise brushed over her breasts. Sensitive, heavy. Her skin felt too tight, desire curling in her belly and making her _want_. She closed her eyes for a moment, traced a pattern on her skin and imagined Erik's hands on her.

Then she shook her head, tried to dispel such thoughts, to quell the desire she felt – desire that even now was warring with fatigue. No matter how she wanted, she would not find satisfaction today. She was too tired, and Erik too scared.

But she would sleep beside him, and that would be enough.

She pulled the nightgown over her head, went to the dressing table and gave her hair a cursory brush before deftly working it into a plait. Then she returned to the bed, turned back the blankets and climbed in. Waited for Erik, strained her ears for some sound of him.

After a while she lay down, pulled the blankets over herself, fatigue trying to pull her down into sleep. She tried not to worry, tried to tell herself that it had been too much to ask of him.

Tried not to cry, felt a lump in her throat. But it was too much, she thought, too soon. She should not be surprised that in the end he had felt unable to join her. Torture, he'd said. How could she ask it of him when she knew what he wanted? What he must have wanted for so long now?

What had always been denied to him.

She did not know how long she waited, was almost asleep by the time the door opened to admit him. She heard rather than saw him move around the room to extinguish the candles, the slight sounds he made enough to jolt her awake, if not quite into wakefulness. She woke enough to stretch a hand out to him, managed the barest of smiles when he took it in his own.

"I thought…I thought you weren't coming," she murmured, yawned. Erik kissed her hand; a moment later the bed shifted as he carefully joined her.

He lay stretched out on the bed beside her, the only point of contact her hand in his, and Christine made a disgruntled sound, rolled towards him. Erik flinched, and Christine was too tired to be remember how little he knew of affection, of loving touches. She pulled herself closer to him, took advantage of his surprise to lift his arm around her shoulders. Curled into him, rested her head on his chest. He hadn't undressed, she thought, was still wearing his shirt and trousers – she could feel the buttons when she lifted her hand to his chest.

He was stiff, uncomfortable. But Christine thought he would never become comfortable if he didn't grow used to it, if she didn't keep reaching out to him like this.

She refused to pull away. She could hear his heartbeat, hear how fast it was. Closed her eyes and breathed him in.

"I love you," she murmured. "Thank you, Erik."

"Why are you thanking me?" he asked, and she could tell he was truly puzzled. Christine opened her eyes, lifted her head as if to look at him, could see nothing in the darkness. Could not tell if he had replaced his mask, but was certain he had. It could not be comfortable to sleep with it on; perhaps he would remove it once she was asleep, and then put it on again before she woke.

Despite his actions this evening, despite the way he had voluntarily removed it to test her conviction, she knew it would not happen often. He would never be comfortable without it – or at least not for a long, long time. Years, perhaps. Years of reassurance, of love, of declaring by word and deed that it _truly_ did not matter to her.

Time would make it true; she did not mind it now, but with time…yes, she thought, with time it would become so wholly unimportant. She would grow used to it, familiar with his face. And it no longer mattered even now, not really. In time it would become insignificant.

"Because I know this isn't easy for you," she said at last. "It's not…I know…" She struggled with her words, struggled to explain what she meant. What she thought. "Thank you for being with me," she said at last. "I – I've missed you."

"Christine," he murmured. "Go to sleep, Christine."

"But – but you'll stay?" she said uncertainly. "Stay with me, Erik?"

"I told you I would try," he said. "But sleep, Christine. You are so tired." And he was persuasive, used his voice against her as he had done before. Christine could not resist, gave a soft sigh and rested her head on his chest once more. She felt Erik's arm curve around her shoulders, slow and tentative, a welcome weight, and the comfort of it accompanied her into sleep.

Christine woke during the night; woke both because she was unused to sharing her bed with someone, and because that someone had moved away from her. She stretched her arm out, found empty sheets – but warm, she realised through the heavy fog of sleep. He had gone, but had not been gone long.

Then he took her hand, returned to her, and Christine sighed happily as his arms slid around her waist – more comfortable than he had been earlier, she identified, but she wasn't sure what had changed.

"Go back to sleep," he murmured. "I am still here, Christine."

"Erik," she said drowsily. "My Erik." She pressed against him, felt his fingers trail up her arm.

Felt something else, something hard against her hip – and it pushed her into wakefulness, made her lift her head to try to peer at him through the darkness.

She knew what it was; knew now why he had moved away from her. Torture, she recalled. Desire so great he had called it torture to simply lie in bed with her.

"Go to sleep," he said, but his voice was strange, almost choked. Restrained, perhaps, as if he was exerting great effort to be controlled. He lifted a hand to her cheek, stroked gentle fingers across her skin. "Lay down and sleep, Christine."

Christine bit her lip for a moment, felt his fingers at her mouth and lifted her own hand to keep them there. Kissed his fingertips, felt that aching flutter in her belly – and elsewhere.

She clasped his hand, took it and brought it lower, brought his hand to her breast and almost gasped at the feel of it. Erik gasped too, a sharp exhalation, and his hand moulded to her shape. His hand, so warm with just one thin layer of cotton between them.

"I want you too," she whispered, daring in the darkness when she would have blushed to speak so plainly in daylight. "You know that, don't you?"

"I – I…" He couldn't speak, and in the darkness she couldn't see his expression. But he didn't pull away from her, his hand remained at her breast. Her nipple under his palm, a slight friction when she breathed.

Torture. He had been right – this was torture.

At last Erik pulled away, his hand slowly leaving her, fingertips lingering for a moment before finally ceasing to touch.

"No," he said. "No. I cannot – you – " He pushed her away from him, not roughly but firmly, and rose from the bed. The darkness precluded observation, but she felt him tuck the blankets around her, felt how carefully he kept from touching her at all now.

She could not object to his leaving her, not now. Not when she felt heat in her limbs, wetness between her thighs. She knew what would happen if he stayed, and she was no more ready for it than he was.

"Go back to sleep," he directed her, and Christine nodded, closed her eyes, listened as he left the room and closed the door firmly behind.

Sleep did not come for long minutes; she lay in the bed, felt the warmth from where he had lain beside her, and wondered if she was playing with fire.


	38. Chapter 38

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>The room was dimly lit when Christine woke, three candles sending shadows flickering around the room. She sat up slowly, let the blankets fall away from her, found Erik sitting at her dressing table.<p>

Watching her.

She wondered how long he had been there, wondered when he had returned. Thought perhaps she should feel awkward, that he had been so clearly watching her sleep. But all she felt was love, and contentment.

And desire. She felt that, felt her breath quicken at the way he was looking at her, felt a prickling just under her skin. Desire for the man who was hers now.

But she remembered what had happened last night, and during the night, remembered how she had felt and what she had thought. Too soon, too much – for both of them. So much had happened so quickly, and she counted it a triumph that Erik had even kissed her as he had. More would be too much, for herself as much as for him.

Besides, there was still the question of what would happen next. What they would do, what they would become. Erik had a wedding dress for her, but she couldn't imagine him standing in a church and making vows before God. And no matter how she loved him, how she desired him…she wasn't sure how she could be with him if they were not married. She had spent her entire life believing that such things should only take place within a marriage bed, after all.

But oh, how she wanted him. And he wanted her too, she could tell he was thinking of it. Could see it in the way his gaze flickered to her neckline, the way her nightgown fell over her curves. She almost wanted to cover herself, to lift the blankets back up to conceal herself, but she pushed the instinct away. She would not be ashamed of it, of this want that they both shared. Would not be coyly modest, not when he knew – he _must_ know how – how much she shared his desire.

His lust.

She smiled at him then, stretched out a hand. "Good morning," she said, and Erik rose, crossed the room, took her hand and bowed over it. Kissed her knuckles, and lingered a moment with his lips against her skin.

"Good morning," he said at last, released her hand and sat on the bed. "Did you sleep –" He cut himself off, and she knew he was thinking of what had occurred during the night. There was the faintest of blushes on his exposed cheek, and her own face was hot.

"You look more rested, anyway," he said after a long moment, awkward, and Christine nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I feel…much better. What time is it? Have I slept late?"

"No," said Erik with a shake of his head. "Later than your usual, but not late. It is not quite half past seven." Christine smiled, thought of three whole hours before she was due in rehearsals, thought of spending the time with him. And Erik smiled too, just slightly, as if pleased by her pleasure.

"I should get up," she said then. She hadn't brought any clothes down, but of course there were many in the wardrobe, more clothes than she could wear in a week. Erik nodded, his gaze flicking over her once again, and she wondered for a moment what he was thinking, whether he was…

She shook the thought away firmly, pushed the blankets aside, and Erik rose as she moved to leave the bed. Paused, stared down at the expanse of leg revealed in the moment before her nightgown fell to cover it, and Christine flushed, wrapped her arms around herself.

She wasn't used to this, wasn't used to such blatant regard. And she wanted it, wanted _him_ – but she wasn't used to it. Nobody else had ever looked at her as Erik did.

"I'll leave you," he said, perhaps aware of her discomfort. "I will be in the kitchen, when you are ready."

"Alright," she said, but reached out for him when he moved to leave, grasped his sleeve. He paused, glanced at her in surprise, and Christine offered him a smile. "Erik," she said softly, "may I kiss you?"

He was silent, tilted his head slightly as he looked at her. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, the mask such a barrier when it came to reading his expression. His eyes were narrowed slightly, but thoughtful more than irritated. At last he nodded, his mouth curved in a slight smile, and Christine lifted her arms around his neck as his went around her waist. He lowered his head to meet her, lips warm and gentle against her own.

Would she ever get used to this feeling? The feel of him against her, his mouth on hers, hot and loving and still so hesitant. She felt dizzy from it, leaned against him so every inch of her was pressed against him.

She felt she could stay here in this moment forever. Held in his arms, kissed by the man she loved.

Erik was smiling when they parted, a soft, awe-filled smile and he looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe she was real.

"Christine," he murmured. "Oh, Christine." He lifted a hand, stroked her hair, trailed his fingertips gently down her cheek. Then he shook himself, stepped away from her, and she wanted to protest his absence. But Erik shook his head before she could speak, gestured at the wardrobe. "Get dressed," he said. "I will prepare your breakfast."

He left the room, closed the door behind him, and Christine stayed where she was for a long moment. Stood in the centre of the room and touched her lips, closed her eyes to recapture the feeling. She swayed a little, felt sluggish and almost feverish. Wished for more time, wished things were different – wished she felt ready to give in to this dangerous passion she felt for him. Three hours until she was due in rehearsals, and she thought that would not be enough for them – not now, not at the beginning of their relationship – even if she could overcome her own morals.

But no, they must talk. There was so much they needed to talk about now, things that were more important than…than desire.

Christine opened her eyes, went to the wardrobe and opened the door. The dresses were just as she had left them, the evening gowns hanging alongside day dresses, and she pulled out the green dress she'd worn, four days before when Erik had first brought her here. A glance at the door before she pulled her nightgown over her head, replaced it with her underclothes. Her corset next, and then the beautiful dress.

Erik liked her in green, she remembered as she went to the dressing table to brush her hair. She longed for a mirror, resolved that if she was to be here more she must ask him to provide one. She could understand why there was none, was reticent to show her vanity to him, but after all, she must make sure her appearance was fit for the world above. Rehearsals and performances, and –

_Don Juan_, she remembered. The plot to capture or kill him. That was something else to speak of with him, far more important than the provision of a mirror! Such things were trivial compared to his safety. His life.

She hurried to brush her hair, tied it away from her face and then blew out the candles before leaving the bedroom. The kitchen door was open, spilling light down the passage, and she paused in the doorway, felt her heart swell with fondness as she watched Erik moving so gracefully around the kitchen as he prepared her breakfast.

"Come and sit," he said, glanced at her over his shoulder. "Breakfast is nearly ready." Christine stepped into the kitchen, went to sit at her accustomed place at the table, watched as Erik took the kettle off the stove. He made her a cup of tea, brought it to her, and she held it in her hands, let it warm her fingers.

"Erik," she said, "we must talk."

He paused, and when she glanced up at him she saw his rigid posture, knew at once that he had understood a different meaning in her words. She put the cup down at once, rose and went to his side. She lifted a hand to his face and stroked her fingers across his cheek.

"No," she said. "No, Erik. I have made my choice and I do not regret it." He didn't meet her gaze, but neither did he pull away from her, and Christine put her other hand on his shoulder, smiled up at him. "I love you," she said. "I will not change my mind. I promise. Haven't I proved that to you now, by coming back?"

"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I…that is what I said, isn't it? That you would come back if you loved me." She could feel the tension slowly leaving him, and he exhaled, closed his eyes and turned his face into her touch. "You love me," he murmured, awed. "How can this possibly be true? Four days ago –"

"I can't take back what I said," said Christine quickly. "But oh, Erik, I am sorry for it. I was a stupid child."

"Never stupid, Christine."

"We must disagree on that," she conceded. "Can you forgive me, Erik? Forgive my foolishness?" She hoped so; she had been so _very_ foolish. The things she had said must have hurt him so very deeply. Not because it was anything he had not heard before – she was not naïve enough to believe her insults had been original to this wretched man who had never known love – but because they had come from her.

"Forgive you," he said. "Oh, Christine, I should be the one asking that. Don't forget what I have done, Christine. What I am."

Christine nodded, lowered her head for a moment. She had not forgotten, did not think she could ever forget. He had killed; he was a murderer. There was no escaping that.

"I haven't forgotten," she said in a low voice. "But it doesn't affect my choice, Erik. Or rather…it doesn't stop me loving you."

"It should."

"But it doesn't," she said, looked up at him again. "Please," she said, "let's not argue about this. Not now we're together." She could not bear the idea that an argument might mar the few precious hours they had together now, before she had to go back upstairs. An argument, when she would have to get through the whole day without him – would have to face Meg and Madame Giry's questions, and perhaps Raoul as well…

No. There was so much they must talk about, and she knew it would not be easy, but she would not allow it to descend into an argument simply because Erik had such a low opinion of himself.

"Sit down," he said. "Your tea will get cold." She sighed, nodded and obeyed, picked up the cup again, sipped the warm liquid. "What do you need to say, then?"

Christine sighed once again, recognised his mood. Antagonistic, as if he _wanted_ to fight. Perhaps he did want it, perhaps he was unconsciously trying to drive her away. Certainly he could not believe so quickly that she truly loved him, that she had chosen him. There would still be some part of him – perhaps it would always be there – that believed she could never love him. That she would be better off without him.

"The opera," she said at last. Erik nodded, lifted one eyebrow in apparent curiosity. "Erik – you know they mean to capture you. I think Raoul even means to kill you if he can. Please, you can't go." Erik said nothing, and Christine's fingers tightened on her teacup. "You _can't_," she said. "Erik, please, you have to stay away."

"And miss my own opera?" he said mildly. "No, Christine, I think not."

"But they'll catch you!"

"Please, Christine," he said, a trifle impatient now, and Christine released her grip on the teacup for fear she would break it. Her hands were trembling a little, she realised. She was so afraid for him, and he didn't seem to recognise the danger. "Remember what I am," he said, and he came to her, touched her hand with cold fingers. Christine looked up at him, confused – confused further by the slight, sly smile about his mouth. "The Ghost, Christine. I am the Ghost. They will not catch me."


	39. Chapter 39

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine shook her head, felt tears stinging in her eyes. "You're just a man," she whispered. "Erik, you're flesh and blood just like anybody else. They'll be waiting for you in box five."<p>

Erik sighed, moved away from her. "You worry needlessly," he said. "I know all about their plot. I almost certainly know more than you do, in fact – the Vicomte was adamant you should not know all the details."

Christine swallowed, nodded her head. She'd suspected as much, of course. There had been furtive conversations that had ceased when she entered a room, the way Raoul had looked sometimes. She'd seen the chief of police inspecting the auditorium, a week ago. There were things going on that she hadn't been allowed to know.

She was simply the pawn. The bait.

"Erik," she said, "it would kill me if anything were to happen to you."

"But nothing will." He returned to the table, brought a plate with rolls, hams and cheeses. Another plate with fruit, and a dish of butter. "Nothing will happen. I give you my word. But you cannot imagine that I would miss it. I have never yet missed seeing you perform since you left the ballet."

Christine paused at that, looked at him with a little wonder. She had performed so many times over the past six months, in three different operas. Had he seen every performance? Even when she had shunned him, even during those long, lonely months without his guidance? But surely he could not have watched every night. Surely he must have grown bored with the same opera night after night, the same songs, the same stories.

She looked across the table at him as he sat down, shook her head slightly. The past was no longer important; it was the future that mattered now.

"If you know their plans, you know how dangerous it would be for you to go," she said. He shrugged his shoulders, and she wondered how he could be so cavalier with his own safety.

Then she chastised herself; he had never had anyone to care about his safety. He had never had a reason to be cautious. Until now.

Christine reached for a roll, broke it in two and buttered it. She could feel his eyes on her, his gaze a heavy weight, but she buttered her roll and cut cheese to go on it. Sipped her tea, thought about her words carefully.

"Is there not somewhere else you could go?" she asked at last. "There must be somewhere else you could at least hear it." She looked at him, tried to smile. "I – I don't think I could understand how it feels, to have your own work performed," she admitted. "But isn't there some safe place? Somewhere nobody else knows?"

Erik pressed his lips together, tilted his head slightly. Curious, a little confused, and she knew she had been right – nobody had ever cared for his safety before. He did not know how to handle it, how to react.

She felt a sudden surge of hot anger at the woman who had birthed him. The woman who had treated him so abysmally. She would never treat her child so badly, she swore to herself – and then paused, amazed at the thought. Her child. She had never thought of children before. Even when she had tried to believe herself in love with Raoul, she had never thought of children.

Something else to speak of with Erik, then – but not soon. There would be time enough for that when other matters were settled.

"You…truly care," said Erik then, startling her from her thoughts. "I do not…nobody has ever…"

"No," she murmured. "No, I can see that. But I do, Erik. I care so much." She reached across the table, and after a moment he took her hand, rubbed his thumb across her fingers. "I do not want to ask you to stay away," she said. "But I – I can't see any choice. I want to perform your opera, but…"

"You do?" His eyes flashed with some emotion, his grip on her hand tightened just a little. "A few days ago you said you had no wish to perform it." Christine sighed, nodded her head. She wished he would not keep referring to the hateful things she had said, but couldn't bring herself to be surprised by it. She had hurt him so much, and he must still be so unsure of her.

"I told you I liked the music," she reminded him. "And…oh, Erik, if there was no plan – if it was simply about the work – of course I want to perform it. But I cannot see any way to keep from being their bait!"

Erik nodded slowly, released her hand. He looked at her for a long moment, his mouth scowling more fiercely than usual. Christine applied herself to her breakfast, knew he would speak only when he wished it. She had made her feelings plain; she could do no more until he made some further comment.

The roll was fresh, and she wondered if he had left her here alone to buy it in the early hours. Wondered if he trusted her enough to leave her alone, for she was not foolish enough to think he truly trusted her. Not yet, not after all the things she had done. Her betrayal of him, the months of pretending he had never meant anything more to her. The hurtful things she had said just a few days ago. No, he would not trust her yet.

But eventually, he would come to trust her, as he would come to trust that she truly loved and desired him.

She finished her tea, glanced up at him again. He was still watching her, but the scowl had faded into that awed expression once more.

"There are," he said then, "other places where I could go to watch the performance." Christine said nothing, bit her lip as she waited for him to continue. She had hoped it would be the case, had hoped he who knew the opera house so well would have some other hidden space that would give him, if not such a superb view, at least _some_ view of the stage. Box five was the best view in the theatre, but it would not be safe.

"But I will attend," he warned her. "Nothing will keep me from it."

Christine nodded. "All I want is for you to be safe," she said. "If they cannot find you…" She smiled, lowered her gaze. "I always sing better when you are there," she admitted. "And it is your work. As much as I do not wish you to be harmed, I would hate for you to miss your own premiere."

"Hm." Erik reached for an apple, a knife, cut it into slices. "You always sing well," he said, almost idly, and Christine's smile widened.

"If I do, it is because of your teaching," she said. "Oh, Erik." It was such a relief, to know for certain that he could watch the performance without being caught, to know that he would be safe. She had not quite realised how heavy the burden had been until it had been lifted. Now it had, and she felt she could breathe easily for the first time since the plot had been hatched.

"I will be quite safe," he said gently to her then. "There is no need to worry, Christine. Although I am…gratified that you do worry."

"Of course I worry," she murmured. "But if you say they will not be able to find you, I believe you."

"They will not. The opera house is larger than anyone realises." He ate his apple slowly, kept his eyes fixed on her, and Christine helped herself to another roll, thought of the other things they must speak of and wondered if she could bring them up now. None was urgent – certainly nothing as urgent, as threatening, as the plot for _Don Juan_ – but there were things she should ask, now it seemed he had accepted that she was his.

That she loved him.

"What else, Christine?" he asked her, and Christine put her knife down and glanced up at him. "There is more," he said. "I can see that. What is it?"

"I…" Christine sighed, lifted a hand to cover her eyes for a moment. "Erik, what will happen now?"

"I asked you that question last night." But despite his flippancy, Erik seemed to be seriously considering her words. He was frowning faintly, lifted a hand to rub along the edge of his mask. Christine leaned back in her chair, thought once again about that wedding dress. She hadn't seen it since that night, so long ago, but she didn't think he would have disposed of it.

Marriage to the Opera Ghost? It was almost surreal. And yet that was what she wanted, was it not? She wanted to marry him, because…

Because she loved him, and he loved her.

"You know what I want," said Erik eventually. "I want you with me always." He smiled then, just a little, a slight upwards tilt at the corner of his mouth. "I am not fool enough to think I can occupy your every minute, but I want…" He closed his eyes for a moment, and Christine waited, wondered what he was thinking. What had made him pause, for she knew exactly what he wanted.

"But what do you want?" he asked. "What do you want, Christine?" There was a chagrined expression on his face now, a sense of self-reproach, and she wondered why. "I think," he said, "that you are not asked that enough. By me, or anyone else."

Christine sighed, shook her head. Perhaps he was right, but it would do no good to speak of it. "I want to be with you," she said. "I…I know now that I cannot continue in my life without you in it." She hesitated, and he lifted his chin slightly, narrowed his eyes as he waited for her to continue. "But there are things I cannot do," she said. "I…" She licked her lips, flushed as his gaze dropped for a moment to her mouth. She wasn't sure how to say it, how to explain.

"I want to stay with you," she said at last. "But I…do not think I can do that unless…" She shrugged her shoulders, lifted her hands to hot cheeks. She wanted him to speak, to give some indication that he understood her, but he simply sat there watching her. Waiting for her. It aggravated her suddenly, his silent insistence, for that was what it was. He was insisting that she speak, that she _tell _him.

"Oh, you know what I mean!" she cried. "Erik, I do not think I can live with you unmarried! I know you do not believe in God, but I do, and to live unmarried with a man – I have always been taught that is sinful!"

"Do you think I care for the world's moralities?" he demanded, a sour note in his voice, and Christine felt miserable, closed her eyes and shook her head. But he had asked what she wanted, had _asked_ her, and she had answered truthfully. She could give him nothing else, could say nothing else.

"No," he murmured. "No, I do not care what the world would think. But…"

Hope fluttered in her heart, and Christine opened her eyes, looked at him again. He was looking at his hands, fiddling with the ring on his finger, twisting it around. Then he glanced up at her, shook his head slightly.

"I'm sorry," she said, wasn't sure why she said it but sensing he needed something. "I didn't mean to…"

"Hush," he said softly. "I asked you. You have only answered. Do not apologise for that." He shook his head again, rose and collected her empty cup, took it to the sink. Stood there with his back to her. "I could not marry in a church," he said, and Christine nodded. She had realised that, knew a little of his feelings about religion. "But…"

She almost held her breath; he turned abruptly, came back to her, knelt by her side.

"Would you consent to a civil ceremony?" he demanded. "If I could find someone who could look past this?" He gestured at his face, at his mask. "Money speaks, Christine. I could find somebody, if I thought that was what you wanted."

It was certainly an unromantic proposal, and Christine had to push away thoughts of comparison – swore to herself that she would banish all such thoughts henceforth – but this was Erik. This was poor, uncertain, hesitant Erik.

This was _Erik_, and he would take her silence the wrong way if it continued for more than another few moments. Christine smiled at him, reached out to his face and touched his bloated lips.

"Erik," she said. "Of course I would. I will."

He made a sound, almost a moan, and lowered his head, rested it on her knee. She stroked his hair – the wig, rather – and smiled to herself. Marriage. Married to Erik. Yes, she would consent to a civil ceremony if it meant she could be with him.

His wife; his Christine, forever, and nobody would be able to part them then.


	40. Chapter 40

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>They went through to the music room, and Christine settled into her chair as Erik stoked the fire. When he was finished, he came to kneel beside her, rested a hand on her knee. As if he could not bear to be far from her, even so far as his own chair, just a few feet from hers.<p>

Christine did not mind. There was so little time before he must take her back up to the opera house, and although she hoped – or, perhaps, assumed – that she would return here in the evening, still the day would seem long without him, as the past two days had. His presence by her side, his hand on her knee, were comforts that she would store up in her mind for when they were separated.

She leaned back in her chair, covered her hand with his own. They were silent together, listened to the hisses and crackles of the fire as the coals caught light. But it was a comfortable silence, easy and relaxed.

They were here together, and that was enough, for the moment.

Erik sighed, rested his head on her knee, and she stroked the fine hair of the wig. She still had not seen his real hair, she realised, or what he had of it. There must, of course, be a reason for the wig as well as the mask, and she could tell from the deformity on his forehead that it must go beyond the natural hairline.

It didn't matter; but she wondered.

How different to that first morning here! He had knelt before her then, had put his hand on her knee and she had felt…not disgust, exactly. Terror, certainly, for she had been terrified of him. Was scared still, of his terrible temper. Although it had not emerged since their reunion, she knew it would come at some point.

She had sat in this chair then and he had knelt at her feet, had looked in horror at the scar on her arm, had begged her to believe he had never meant to hurt her.

And he had cried, she remembered. He had cried, and she had hated it, had hated seeing him in pain. She'd reached out to him, already beginning to remember that behind all the terrible stories of the Opera Ghost was a man, the man who had taught her to sing and kept loneliness at bay for her when she had first come to the opera house.

"I'll begin making enquiries at once," said Erik, lifted his head from her knee and looked at her. Christine nodded, didn't question how he would do it. He would write, she supposed. The local registry office would not be difficult to find, but she was not sure how he planned to go there. He shied away from all contact, but even a civil ceremony would necessitate going out into the world.

"Once we're married, nobody can take you from me," he muttered, and Christine lifted her fingers to his cheek, stroked gently. He closed his eyes briefly, relishing the touch. She knew what he was thinking; knew he thought of Raoul. And she could not deny that Raoul would keep trying, would keep attempting to persuade her that she was wrong. That she still loved him and they could be happy together.

Besides – she was as eager for their marriage as he was. She thought of last night, of sleeping with him in her bed. Thought of the way she had felt. His hand on her breast, his mouth at her neck. She blushed, and Erik's eyes flashed, his lips moved silently as he looked at her.

He knew what she was thinking; he shared her thoughts.

He knelt up then, brought his face level with hers, leaned forward and kissed her. Chastely, a press of lips to hers, but her heart soared that he had initiated it. He was learning to be bold in this, learning that his embraces would not be rejected. Perhaps it would take many days, many weeks, before he was truly comfortable. But it was a beginning, and she lifted her arms to wrap around his neck, deepened the kiss.

They parted; Christine kept her eyes closed for long moments, smiled, felt his hand stroking through her hair.

"Say it again," he whispered, begging her. "Tell me again, Christine."

She did not need to ask, knew what he wanted and gave it to him freely, smiled gently and spoke the words that he longed to hear.

"I love you," she said. "I love you." He made a choked, mewling sound, and Christine lifted her hand from his shoulders, cupped his cheek. He turned into the touch, pressed a kiss to her palm, and Christine felt joy bubbling up in her chest, threatening to explode into laughter. "I love you, Erik," she said again. "And I shall say it as often as you like, for the rest of our lives."

"Oh, Christine." He was silent for long moments, his eyes closed, his mouth quivering. He was trying to keep from crying, she saw, but she thought they were happy tears. Not sad, not any longer. She would endeavour to never make him sad again. "I love you," he murmured. "You know I love you. I have always loved you. Only you, Christine."

Christine laughed a little then, and his eyes flew open, he stared at her accusingly. "My Erik," she said. "You can't _always _have loved me. Not like this – not when I was a child, Erik." The accusation on his face faded into amusement, a soft smile on his mouth.

"Perhaps not," he conceded. "Certainly not as I do now. But I have always cared for you." He took her hand, entwined their fingers. "From the very first time I saw you. You were such a small thing, and I could not forget you." Christine's smile widened, delighted at the reminiscence.

"When, then?" she asked. "When did your feelings change?"

"Too gradually to be able to say," he said. "One day I still thought I looked on you simply as my pupil, and then suddenly…" He took her hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. "Suddenly all I could see was the beautiful woman before me. And I wondered how I could have missed seeing that you had grown up."

He was looking at her with such tenderness, such enduring love, that her smile faded. He looked at her as though…

As though she were the most precious thing in the world.

It was gratifying, but a little frightening at the same time. He had such great power, physically and mentally, was clever and manipulative and dangerous. And he looked at her as though she was the centre of his existence. She had only to express a wish and he would hasten to fulfil it.

Be careful, she told herself. She must be very careful with this man. He had put her on a pedestal and then raged at her when she had fallen from it. She must make sure he did not put her back on a marble pillar in his mind. She was human, and flawed, and he must not think otherwise. Because if he did, it would only lead to disappointment and recriminations for them both.

Still, it was flattering, the way he looked at her, the way he spoke. She could not deny how it felt, to have him say these things.

"And then, of course," Erik continued, unaware of her thoughts, "it was too late. I had resolved to try to continue to be simply your teacher, but then…"

But then Raoul had reappeared in her life. He did not say it explicitly, but he did not have to, for she knew what he meant. He would never have appeared in the mirror had Raoul not come to her dressing room and driven him into jealousy. Raoul's appearance had driven him to it, and afterwards she had driven him away by her foolish, childish curiosity.

Christine shook her head, pulled her hand from his and let it fall into her lap. "Don't think about that," she entreated. "There is nothing to tie me to him anymore. I am here with you now." He pulled away from her, knelt back, lowered his head. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, wished she knew the right words to say.

"I love _you_," she said at last, and his shoulders shook a little from some emotion – she hoped he wasn't near tears again, couldn't bear it if he was. "I love _you_, Erik, and I am going to be _your_ wife. Not Raoul's."

"Yes," he muttered. "You are mine now." But he didn't seem to quite believe it, and Christine was agonised, but knew there was nothing more she could say. Time would heal his wounds, perhaps, time would let him believe her. He could not do more now than he was doing, could not believe further than he already believed.

"What did he say?" Erik asked then, lifted his head to look at her, a familiar sneer on his lips. Christine shuddered, shook her head, couldn't speak. "What did he say?" Erik demanded. "When you returned his ring."

"Erik," she whispered. "Don't…"

"Don't what?" he snapped. He rose gracefully to his feet, paced away from her, turned away. His back was rigid, his hands clenched into fists. His mood had changed in moments, and Christine was left trying to keep up, trying to respond without further angering him.

"Don't be jealous," she said, and Erik spun around to stare at her, his eyes wide and fixed on her face. She rose, held out a hand to him helplessly. "I know I've given you no reason to trust what I say, but…but I gave him back his ring, Erik. I told him I couldn't marry him – that I don't love him – I've spent the past two days trying to make him understand that." To her horror she realised she was almost crying, hot tears prickling at her eyes. "Why do you want to know what he said?" she asked. "Do you think it will do either of us any good to dwell on it?"

He closed the distance between them, reached for her, folded her into his arms. Christine went willingly, pressed her face against his chest and felt the cloth of his shirt grow damp with her tears.

"Forgiven me," he said at last. "I am not…I cannot…" Christine sniffed, and one of his arms left her – he felt in a pocket, produced a handkerchief, gave it to her. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose. Clutched the square of cloth in her hand and felt his arm return to hold her securely in his embrace.

"Forgive me," he said again. "You're right. No good will come of thinking about him. But even now I find I cannot help my jealousy."

No, he could not help it. He could not help who he was, how he felt, and she could not expect him to change. His jealousy might never fade, she realised. Perhaps he would grow to believe he need no longer be jealous of Raoul, but inevitably there would be others, other men for whom she felt nothing more than friendship – but Erik would be jealous nonetheless.

She could not live as a hermit, spend her time only with women. She was an opera singer; the cast was full of men. And there were the parties which she was expected to attend, post-performance events and the occasional celebration thrown by the opera house, such as the annual masquerade ball. Would she always worry? Would she always have to scrutinise everything any man said to her, for fear that Erik's rage would be incurred?

But thinking of such things was pointless, because even if the answer to those questions was yes…it would not change her mind. She belonged here, in Erik's arms.

"Stop crying," he pleaded, his arms still tight around her. "Please, Christine. I can't bear to see it." Christine wiped her eyes again, tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve and tried to do as he asked. Lifted her head and tried to smile at him, to show she was alright. She wasn't entirely sure why tears had come so quickly, when by rights she ought to be happy now, happy despite his temper and his jealousy. For hadn't she resolved to accept those just as she accepted the better things?

"Don't cry," he whispered, and kissed her again. Christine pushed all unpleasantness aside, closed her eyes as his bloated lips covered hers, and tried to commit the kiss to memory. Tried to store up the sensations he elicited in her for the long day ahead.


	41. Chapter 41

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"What time is it?" Christine asked, when at last they parted. Her cheeks had dried while they kissed, and her mouth felt swollen, but she didn't mind that. She savoured it, in fact, as physical evidence of the kiss.<p>

Erik took a watch from his pocket, glanced at it and scowled. "Nearly half past nine," he said. Time had passed more quickly than Christine had realised, and she would have to leave in perhaps half an hour.

They hadn't spoken of that yet, and Christine knew they must. She was sure Erik would not dream of keeping her from her career – from his opera, at least – but it was something they must discuss as they faced the future together.

"I do not want to let you go," said Erik, and his hands went to her waist again, pulled her close to him once more. Christine rested her head against his chest, loved that he was comfortable enough to hold her. It was, she felt, something that she would never have enough of – simply being held in his arms.

"I have rehearsals," she said quietly. "I must go. But I will come back, Erik."

"Will you?"

"Of course I will." She pulled away, looked up at him with a frown. "I came back last night, didn't I?"

"Yes," he said, slow and thoughtful. "Yes, you did. And…I know you must go." She felt a little relief at that, at what must surely be confirmation that he would not prevent her from continuing her career. And yet she felt it was still something that should be discussed; hesitated a moment before tentatively speaking of it.

"Erik," she said, "you would not…you would not expect me to stop performing, would you?"

His look of horror was instant and unfeigned. "Of course not!" he said. "Have I not made that plain?" Christine bit her lip, hoped he would not spin once more into sarcasm or anger. "Oh, Christine," he said after a moment, soft and hurting, and it was almost worse than his anger. "How could you think such a thing of me?"

"I…" She didn't think she could explain herself clearly, clutched the lapel of his jacket and then smoothed the fabric again.

"Christine."

"I – I thought you wouldn't," she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a rush. "But I…I'm sorry, Erik, but I had to ask, after…" She didn't want to mention Raoul, but could see in the way his expression darkened that he understood the reference. She hurried to continue before he could speak, before he could berate her for suggesting they might be alike. "I have grown so much in these past few days," she said. "Is it not better to ask these things now? To – to set out how we expect to live our life together?"

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I suppose that is only wise." She gave a sigh of relief, and Erik's hands on her waist tightened just a little. "You are wary of me," he said. "Even now."

"Yes," Christine admitted, knew he would accept nothing but the truth from her now. "Do you blame me for that? You yourself said I would always be afraid of you."

"Yes…yes, I said that," he said slowly. "But I…I do not want you to be afraid, Christine."

Christine couldn't quite look at him. "Erik," she said softly, "aren't you afraid too?"

He huffed a sigh, nodded. "Yes," he had to agree. "But not in the same way you are."

"Still." She rested her hands on his chest, lowered her head. "I think I will grow less afraid in time," she said after a moment. "Please don't blame me, Erik. I'm not…not as scared as I was. But you…" She shook her head, and Erik sighed again. "Don't be cross with me," she murmured. "Don't blame me. I am overcoming it, but Erik…you have such a temper."

He kissed her forehead, gentle and forgiving. "Yes," he said. "Yes, you are right, of course. Perhaps…perhaps we may overcome our faults together." She closed her eyes, leaned against him, felt relief flood through her. It would have been so easy for him to be hurt or angry, but acceptance was harder, and she was grateful for it.

Because she was still afraid, or at the very least, was still wary. No amount of love or desire could erase that so quickly. She knew what he was capable of, and it scared her – and she thought she was only sensible to remember that. To remember how she felt when he raged at her, the cut of his sarcasm and the awareness of how much stronger than her he was.

"I will go to rehearsals," she said, returning to their original topic of conversation. "And afterwards…may I come here for supper?" She glanced up at him, saw a flash of wonder, hastily concealed. "If you want me here," she said, teasing a little now, and she started to pull away from him. "If you don't, I can – "

"Christine!" He caught her by the shoulders, hands gentle but insistent. "Of course I want you here! You –" And then he saw her smile, paused for a moment. That look of wonder lay exposed on his face once more; his thumb brushed across the skin of her neck. "You – you are teasing me," he said slowly.

"Yes," she said. "Forgive me. Of course I will come." She reached up, kissed his cheek. "Of course I know you want me to be here," she murmured soothingly. Too soon for teasing, she reproached herself, and perhaps too cruel to Erik, who was still so uncertain, still so desperate.

"Of course," he echoed. "You will come." He closed his eyes, and Christine watched as he wrestled himself back under control. "And – and after?"

Christine hesitated then, took a step away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. "I think I must return to the dormitory," she said reluctantly. She did not want to, but she knew what Madame Giry would say – knew what propriety would demand. Much as she might like to, she could not stay here until they were married.

"Yes," said Erik. "Yes, I can see that you must." He sounded resigned but not, she thought, rejected. He understood her reasoning, even if he did not agree with it wholeheartedly. "As I said," he continued, "I shall begin making enquiries immediately." His glance at her was heated, and Christine felt herself blush once again. Yes, he would hurry, for neither of them was prepared to wait long.

"But I'll come for supper," she said. "And – and every day, Erik. Rehearsals are usually over by five, I can be here all evening."

"Yes," he said again. "Christine…" She waited, looked at him, and then when he seemed reluctant to speak she stepped close to him again. Erik stared down at her, and the vulnerability of a few moments before had vanished completely. He was master of this situation, and she had to suppress a sudden shiver.

Yes, she thought, of course she was still afraid of him. Of course she was. She would be a fool not to be scared. She loved him, more dearly than she could ever have imagined – but he still scared her. The fearsome Opera Ghost. It was as much a part of him as anything else. Angel, friend, teacher…husband.

"Don't see him again," he said, and Christine lowered her eyes, bit her tongue to keep from speaking. "Promise me you won't see him again, Christine." She hesitated just a moment too long, and he snarled, lifted a clenched hand, spun away from her. "Lies," he spat. "It's all lies. It's all meaningless!"

"Erik, no!" exclaimed Christine, wanted to reach out for him but couldn't summon the courage for it. "It's not – I'm not lying to you. Please –"

"If you're not lying, you would have no problem making me this promise!" he snapped, and he turned back – Christine stepped back a pace, felt fear rising up, a stranglehold on her throat stopping her from speaking. "It means nothing! You can't even –"

"I can't!" she managed, cut him off and he stared at her, lip curled in a snarl. "I can't promise it, Erik!"

"Because you still love him!" Erik raged, closed the gap between them and grasped her roughly, almost shook her. "Deny it if you will, I know the truth now!"

"It isn't true!" she said, closed her eyes to block out the sight of his anger, lifted her hands to clutch at his jacket. "Erik – Erik, please!" His fingers were digging into her arms, holding her so tightly she was sure she would bruise. She cringed away from the hurt, from _him_.

But his grasp on her, the pain of it, gave her a way forward, and she opened her eyes, looked up at him.

"Erik," she said softly, "you are hurting me."

He released her at once, staggered away in horror. Glanced down at his hands, as if he couldn't believe what he had done – couldn't believe that he had held her so tightly. Christine straightened, hugged herself. Watched him, saw how he looked at her. Horrified. Scared, even.

He had claimed he never intended to hurt her, when she had shown him proof that he had done so, shown him the scar on her arm. Now she supposed he would say it again. But first she would attempt to explain herself.

"I can promise you that I will not seek him out," she said, quiet and subdued. "I have no wish to see him, Erik. But he comes to the opera house – he is a patron. And he has not understood my refusal of him." Erik made a sound, but seemed willing to let her speak – did not look at her now, stood with fingers stretched wide, as if he was trying to forget the feel of her in his grasp.

"If I promised you I would not see him," Christine continued, finding her bravery now where she had lacked it moments before, "what would you say if he came to see me? If I could not escape talking to him?" Erik shook his head, but she couldn't tell why – couldn't tell what he was thinking. "You would be angry," Christine said, knew she was right. If she made that promise and was forced to break it, Erik would be so angry, would be furious, and not just with her. He would take his anger out on Raoul, and Christine could not stand idly by if that happened.

She loved Erik, but she could not condone the harm of another human being.

"But Erik," she said, "I love _you_. I am going to marry _you_. It's not a lie. Please…" Tears in her eyes once more, and she rubbed at her eyes, almost angry with herself. "Please believe me," she whispered. "You – you mean _everything_ to me. If you still do not believe me, I…"

"Christine," he whispered, agonised, and she choked on her tears, swayed as she stood. Erik came to her, ushered her to her chair but did not touch her. She sank down into it, and he dropped to his knees before her, his head bowed. As if awaiting her judgement for the hurt he had done her.

Judgement or forgiveness, and she wasn't sure she was qualified to give either.

"Christine," he said again, and she reached out to him, brushed her fingers against his mask. He flinched, but did not pull away; Christine let her fingers drift down to his mouth, up his bared cheek, traced the line of his jaw.

"I love you," she murmured. "I don't know what else I can say, Erik. I don't know how to make you believe me."

"If I were a better man, you would not have to ask that," he said in a mutter.

"You are who you are," said Christine. "I do not expect to change you." He lifted his head, looked up at her, and his eyes were bright with tears. "My Erik. I'm sorry."

"Sorry," he repeated. "It's I who should be begging your forgiveness. I swore you would never again…" He trailed off, shook his head. "But…but you still say you love me," he murmured. "Perhaps…"

Christine hated having to speak, but she was acutely aware of time passing by, of the need to be prompt for rehearsals.

"Erik," she said, and leaned forwards, rested her hands on his shoulders. Pressed a kiss to his forehead, felt him shiver. "I'm sorry," she said. "But I must go."


	42. Chapter 42

Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Erik sighed, a ripple of tension through his body, and he nodded. "Very well," he said. "You must not be late, of course."<p>

"Erik, you do believe I will return?" Christine demanded, refused to let him pull away from her, grasped his shoulders firmly to keep him kneeling before her. "I won't go if you don't believe me!"

"You have rehearsals," was his answer. "And I think we both know that you must not…draw attention." A curl of his lip, and Christine shivered.

"What – what do you mean?" she asked, a little nervous, relaxing her grip on him so he was able to stand. Did he know of Raoul's foolishness? Did he know what the managers thought of her? But surely he couldn't, surely he would be so much angrier if he did.

"I know you have not profited from your association with me," said Erik, smoothing his jacket. "And your absence no doubt caused complications."

"Well – yes," Christine had to admit, grateful that he turned away for a moment, long enough for her to conceal any relief that she felt. He did not know – and she would not tell him. Not unless she had to, anyway. Things might change, after all. Madame Giry was right; she had been working so hard, and had been well-reviewed. If _Don Juan_ was a success, surely any scandal would be buried?

"I have been thinking of retirement," said Erik then, glanced at her, and Christine tilted her head slightly, curious. Erik lifted his eyebrow, shook his head. "Do not be so foolish as to think the managers will take no further action after the premiere," he said, almost a warning. "I do not for one moment believe that they are equipped to run the opera house, but…"

"But?"

"But I will have you," said Erik plainly. "I think I could suffer any ineptness if I have you."

Christine smiled faintly, rose and shook out her skirts. "I doubt that," she said. "But it would be safer – for both of us, perhaps." She reached out a hand to him; after a moment's hesitation, he took it. "You're right," she said. "I don't think they would give up so easily." She didn't think _Raoul_ would give up so easily, even if Erik did fade into retirement. Even if the notes and threats ceased entirely, she thought Raoul might still pursue him.

But not everything could be made simple just because she had made her choice. What was it she had thought last night? That happily ever afters belonged only in stories. They had no place in the real world. The world was messy and complicated, and her life with Erik would not be simple just because they loved one another.

Perhaps if this were the end, she thought suddenly, perhaps then things would be simple. But this was not an ending. This was the beginning of something new, for them both.

"But we can speak of this later," said Erik. He took his watch from his pocket again, glanced at it and scowled. "We must leave, or you will not reach the practice room in time," he said.

"Yes," said Christine, letting him pull his hand from hers. "I must go up to the dormitories, first," she added. "For my music."

Erik nodded. "I will take you there," he said. "Or as close as the hidden passages allow. Much closer than the dressing room, at least." He went around the room, extinguishing candles until only the fire still gave any light, sending shadows skittering around the room. The darkness made the room strange, almost unfamiliar. Christine was used to darkness in Erik's home, but for a moment she almost felt as though she wasn't sure where she was.

Then Erik took her hand, anchored her, and she smiled at him, smiled as the firelight flickered across his mask.

"Are you ready?" he asked her, and Christine nodded. "Come, then."

He took her from his home, across the lake and back into the maze of hidden passages and tunnels that he knew so well. Christine followed, her hand clasped in his. They did not hurry; although time was pressing, neither of them wished to hasten the moment of parting.

Up they went, through disused cellars and cramped spaces, and Erik was more cautious in the light of day, stopped her several times as he listened to something she could not hear, motioned for her to be quiet. She tried to model herself on him, made her footsteps light and kept her lips pressed together to prevent any sound escaping.

It would not do for him to be seen – or for her to be seen with him.

At last they stopped, in a passageway barely wide enough for a person to pass down – the ceiling so low that Erik had to bend his head – and he turned to her, squeezed her hand gently.

"This is as close as we can go," he said. "Beyond me there is a ladder, and a trapdoor. It leads into the box room where the dancers store their trunks. You know your way from there."

Christine nodded. She rarely had cause to go to the box room stuffed full of trunks and suitcases, but she knew where it was, passed by it almost every day. She knew her way.

"Shall I meet you in the dressing room, after rehearsals?" she suggested, and was rewarded by a brief flash of a smile from Erik. "We should finish at five," she went on. "Because of course there's the ballet tonight."

"Of course," he echoed. "I…I will wait for you, then." He looked a little hesitant, as if he didn't quite believe she would come back to him. There was nothing more she could add, no way to persuade him. But she lifted her hand, cupped his cheek, gave him a gentle smile.

"I will think of you all day," she promised. "Every minute, Erik."

"And I shall think of nothing but you," he said. He turned his head, kissed her palm. He was as reluctant to part as she, and she stepped closer to him, leaned against him in the cramped passageway and rested her head against his chest.

She could not hear his heartbeat. The sounds of the opera house around them were muffled by brick and wood, by the walls and floors that separated them from those who moved and worked and _lived_ here, but it was enough to drown out the sound of Erik's heart, even when she closed her eyes to try to concentrate on it.

"Christine," he murmured, one hand at her waist and the other stroking through her hair. "My Christine."

"Yours," she agreed. "And you are my Erik." She lifted her head, smiled at him once again. "My Angel."

"I am not –"

"No," she said quickly. "No, I am not a child to believe in fairytales any longer, Erik. But you are my Angel." He couldn't quite look at her, his gaze skittering away for long moments before he was inevitably drawn back. Wonder and awe in his eyes, love and desire. She wondered what he saw in her, what feeling was showing in her own expression.

Love. Desire. Longing, perhaps. She longed to stay with him, wished fervently that she did not have rehearsals – that the normal routine of her days might be disrupted to allow them time to become easy with each other, time to learn each other more thoroughly. Time to work through the many problems and issues that still must be dealt with.

But life must continue, and she must face her day without allowing herself to be overly distracted by thoughts of Erik, and thoughts of their future life together. She must perform more than adequately, she must throw herself into the rehearsals and prove to everyone that she had earned her place.

Christine must be the prima donna that Erik had always intended her to be.

She sighed, and he nodded, mouth twisted in a scowl. Displeasure, but not directed at her – rather, he felt the same as she. That the world ought to stop so they could be together without having to ignore her responsibilities.

"You must go," he said. "You will be late. It would not do for you to begin to assimilate Carlotta's bad habits."

It broke the slight tension that had formed, made Christine laugh. "Heaven forbid!" she said, pleased that Erik felt relaxed enough to tease her a little. It was a good sign, she thought. A sign that he would believe her sooner rather than later, that he was _beginning_ to believe that she loved him.

"Kiss me," she said. "Kiss me before I go, Erik." She thought he would hesitate, thought he would give her that amazed look once more, but she was wrong. Erik lowered his head, pressed his mouth to hers. Pressed her against the wall and covered her body with his own, kissed her with such passion, such _possession_, that Christine could barely comprehend it.

Warm and loving, and Christine was filled with heat, filled with desire. She clutched at his shoulders, lifted a hand to his face – found herself wishing that his mask were not in her way, and marvelled at her own transformation that she could think such a thing without even the tiniest flicker of disgust or horror at what lay beneath.

Erik had asked her to see beyond the mask, she recalled dimly as he pressed her against the wall, learning all the ways to kiss her, to make her knees weak. He'd asked it of her, and she had done more than that. She had seen beyond the mask and beyond his face, had found beneath all external features the inner beauty of the man.

It was not all beauty; he had darkness in him, and she would not be blind to it. But she loved him.

She loved him.

They parted, and Christine lifted a hand to his mouth, traced the swollen line of his lip.

"I must go," she said softly. "But I will be with you tonight, Erik." He nodded, kissed her fingertips.

"At five," he agreed. "I shall be waiting."

"Don't be anxious if I'm late," she said, and she pulled away from him, lifted a hand to make sure her hair was still presentable. "Rehearsals do run late sometimes. It isn't because I won't be coming. Promise to remember that?"

"I give you my word," said Erik, a slight smile curving his mouth once more, softening his features. "I shall remember."

"And remember that I love you," she said softly. "Remember that, Erik."

He nodded again, and helped her carefully slide between him and the wall. It was a tight squeeze, but in moments she was by the ladder. She looked up at the ceiling, saw the trap door Erik had mentioned. She couldn't remember ever seeing it from the other side, hoped nothing had been moved on top of it – but she knew Erik would not have brought her this way if the route had been closed, even temporarily.

The trapdoor was a little beyond her arm's reach, but it was not beyond Erik's, and as she put her foot on the first rung of the ladder, he reached up and lifted the door.

"I will make sure it is closed behind you," he assured her. "Wait at the door of the box room for a moment, to listen for anyone passing by."

"Alright," she said, and she glanced over her shoulder at him, tried to speak but couldn't find the words to express all she was feeling. Erik seemed to understand though, gave her a nod and another brief smile.

"Go," he said. "I will see you later."

He believed it, and that belief was enough for Christine. She grasped the ladder, climbed it easily, pulled herself through the trapdoor and out into the room above. Erik climbed up a rung, reached for the door to close it again.

"I love you," he said, and Christine smiled.

"And I love you," she said. A flash of happiness crossed his face – such a novel emotion for him, but it was there and she could see it even though the mask concealed so much.

Then he closed the trapdoor, shutting himself away from view, and Christine straightened, brushed dust from her skirt. The temptation to open the door again was strong – to return to him and forget all her responsibilities.

But he would not thank her for doing so.

She touched her lips for a moment, remembered the feel of kissing him. Thought about how her life would change now. She wondered, briefly, what she would say to Raoul when he tried to see her next, for she had been honest with Erik – she knew Raoul would seek her out again, and whilst she would of course discourage him, she could not see how to avoid him altogether.

Raoul would know, of course, what it meant when soon – oh, hopefully it would be soon! – there was a wedding ring on her finger. Christine knew he would suspect Erik of threatening her, would assume she had married him because she had no choice.

It was something to think of later; for now she dwelt for a moment more on the memory of Erik's mouth on hers, his arms around her.

And then she went to the door, listened for a moment for any passing footsteps, and then went to face the day.

To face her new life.

* * *

><p>Finis.<p>

Thank you for reading :)


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